Whistleblower
by casket4mytears
Summary: Riverdale AU. When Betty Cooper uncovers a diabolical scheme that will destroy Riverdale, she offers up her story to one of the biggest newspapers in the country. Enter Jughead Jones, the newest intern at the Times, a former classmate of Betty's and now, her undercover boyfriend. If the story doesn't kill him, the struggle to remember their relationship is fake just might...
1. Prologue

_**As always, it begins with too little sleep and song... We begin with a short snippet, but the first chapter is coming very soon.**_

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**PROLOGUE**

"_**Words, they keep dropping.  
They keep spilling from my hands on to paper.  
I'm in Virginia.  
It's 3am and I can't fall asleep…"**_

_**Whistleblower - Arkells**_

The hotel room smells faintly of mildew and stale cookies—chocolate chip, perhaps. My subconscious need to identify the exact type of portable snack surely stems from the ominous growling of my stomach, but I can't surrender to something as base as human need.

There are lives at stake that I cannot risk for anything, even a slice of cold pizza from the mini fridge.

Had you told me where the last three weeks would take me, how they would irrevocably change my entire life, I would have rolled my eyes and told you to fuck off. It's a goddamn movie cliché, isn't it, for a life to change so fast? And yet, staring at the evidence scattered across a series of notebook pages, sound files and PDF documents, I can't come to another conclusion.

I drag and drop the sound files into a playlist, pressing play as my stomach lurches. That voice. _Her voice._ She trusted me, and I've failed her now. I've sealed her fate, with one careless slip of the tongue. And if she is lost, then these recordings—the truth that she was willing to lay down her life for—are all that remain.

Opening a new document, my fingers fly over the keys, setting the stage for the sordid story she whispers through my ear buds.

"_The last person who tried to take him down was murdered. I don't want to die. But I will not let my hometown be destroyed. I can't sit and watch it all be torn to pieces. I need your help. I need you to stop him."_

"_Why not take it to the police?"_ I hear myself ask.

"_He's got the governor in his pocket. The sheriff is on his payroll. This has to be public. The pressure needs to be on them all to ensure justice is carried out_._"_

This is front page news I'm writing in our nation's capital, but there is no celebration here, no joy. There is only a humble effort to ensure it wasn't all in vain. Most journalists would be cracking open champagne, but I'm only interested in cracking skulls. Must be my father's DNA.

I miss it at first, but the second knock—short, sharp raps—startles me from my work. I yank out my ear buds, reaching for the revolver my father foisted on me as we parted ways in Pennsylvania. I'm not expecting company and three in the morning is hardly a social call. A third knock is accompanied by a hushed whisper.

"Damn it, Jones, I know you're in there! Open up!"

My forearms are awash in goosebumps as I recognize the voice beyond the double-bolted door. _It can't be_. I peek through the hole, confirming my visitor's identity. _It's really her_. My heart shudders and skips as I flip the locks, ushering in the slender female tapping her foot on the stained carpet in the corridor.

"I thought you were dead!" I exclaim, ushering her inside.

"As far as everyone else is concerned, I'm a corpse. The only way we all get out of this alive is if the world beyond continues to believe that."

She settles onto the edge of the bed, stripping off her damp trench coat and discarding it on the floor. Her hand slides into her purse, tugging free a familiar object.

I lay the gun down on the bedside table, eyes widening. "Is that what I think it is?"

"You're damn right it is. It's everything we need to end this, once and for all. I can't undo what has been done, but I can make damn sure someone pays for it. One way—" She hesitates, gesturing to my weapon, "—or another."

The hatred for those who have taken from me, from us both, is feeding upon my grief. It would be so easy to make a call, to gather reinforcements and take this to the streets, but it's not what she would want. And with one corpse back from the grave, I cannot help but cling to a desperate fever dream of a second resurrection.

"We do this how she wanted it," I announce. "But if it doesn't work out, I'm very invested in Plan B."

She tugs absently on her ponytail, tightening it with a stern look. "Let's see why this little device I pilfered has been worth killing for…"


	2. Green eyes, like the forest

_**Welcome to the first proper chapter of my new little AU!**_

_**This one's inspired by a wee bit too much time spent listening to Arkells and not sleeping enough like, ever. Also, a desire to dig into Hiram's shadiness without GG. **_

_**We'll be rewinding a bit to see how Jughead ended up in Virginia. Over the course of the story, we'll also be seeing through Betty's eyes as well. **_

_**Give Whistleblower by Arkells a spin to set the mood for the tale and for this chapter, a spin of Brooklyn, You're Killing Me by Andrew McMahon In The Wilderness. It felt NY and Bughead all at once, and I've pulled the chapter title from it. **_

_**Disclaim, disclaim!**_

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**"Green eyes, like the forest I got lost in on the way to some other life..."**

**Jughead: 3 Weeks Ago**

I sling my backpack strap a little higher upon my right shoulder and take a deep breath. The bustle of busy commuters and eager tourists ebbs and flows before me in the crowded airport. I hate airplanes: the ear popping, the cramped seats, the sense of nowhere to run. I would have preferred to make the drive from Evanston to New York, but my new boss bought the express flight before calling me yesterday morning.

"We need you out here for an urgent meeting with an informant," Jessica had explained, her voice harried. "She can only meet with us tomorrow at noon, and we want you there for it."

"Sure, I'll just pack a bag and jump in the car—"

"We've booked a flight for you. I'm emailing you the details now. It's an early flight, but we want to make sure you're here on time."

I'd tried a few probing questions, struggling to understand the urgency of my presence for a basic paid internship at the Times, but you can't out-journalist an editor at one of the most powerful media outlets in the country. Whatever this was, it had Jessica on edge.

I check my watch, nodding in satisfaction. I had two hours to make it to the Times' head office, which meant I should have enough time to grab a coffee and a Danish en route. Drawing a deep breath, I head outside to a series of waiting taxis, hailing the first in line and providing the address of my new employer.

I'm under no illusions, here. I've lucked out in nailing this internship. Unlike most, I'll actually be given the opportunity to do some serious investigative journalism. Less coffee fetching, more fact finding. Who would have thought exposing an admissions scam involving the women's swim coach would have garnered so much attention? And yet, here we are, watching the stars of the latest Law and Order spin-off plead guilty to bribing their way into priority admission at my first choice college (I'd ended up at my second choice).

If I'd known that's what it would have taken for me to be accepted four years ago, I wouldn't have bothered wasting money on those application fees.

The drive is slow and tedious, the gridlock of early morning grating on my last nerve. I've elected to take a cab to a subway station on the outskirts of the city, where I'll jump on for the last leg of the journey. I saw enough on my last trip to know that people routinely walk faster than cars in the core of New York.

I can't help but wonder what could be so dire as to require a last-minute flight into the city a full month prior to my official start date. Why would an informant not be available in a few weeks? What kind of story was this? The nagging doubts that have plagued my entire life also rear their head: _Is this too big of a story for me to handle?_

Deep breath in, and release. _Jessica has been doing this job for a long time. There's a reason she's flown me out for this._

I reach the office with ten minutes to spare and an espresso in tow, pastry devoured in the short walk from the station. Checking in with security, I'm given a visitor's pass and directed to the receptionist upstairs. I've barely stepped off the elevator before running into a visibly relieved Jessica.

"You made it! Excellent. We're headed to the board room on the west side."

I swallow hard against the lump in my throat and follow her brisk walk through the cubicles and shelves, nodding politely to my new colleagues. Jessica mumbles something about introductions being later, and I murmur acknowledgement.

Jessica's manager, Ryan Richards, is already seated in the board room, along with a young woman with purple hair fussing over a Macbook. Both glance up and nod enthusiastically at my arrival. I'm starting to feel a little like a celebrity, which is the last thing I've ever wanted in my life. Fidgeting with my backpack strap, I wait for Jessica to take a seat and settle in across from her.

"Thank you for coming on short notice, Jughead," Jessica begins. "I know this has all been weird and a whirlwind, but we could not take any chances with communications by phone or electronic means."

"I'm not sure I follow. You think my phone line is somehow insecure?"

Jessica leans forward, flashing a smile in reassurance. "It's highly unlikely, but after speaking with our informant today, I'm sure you'll appreciate our abundance of caution with this story. I know we agreed to a start date in September, but we'd like you to begin Monday, if that's okay."

"Um, sure. I'm available, although I don't have a place lined up in the city just yet."

"That's fine. You'll be on assignment for the next few weeks, if our informant agrees to proceed," Ryan interjects. "The Times will be paying for your accommodations and meal expenses, as well as travel costs. Do you have a vehicle?"

"Yeah, I have a car back in Illinois. Sir, may I ask what the hurry is? Or where I'm going?"

Ryan and Jessica exchange a look. "It's probably best that we discuss that with the informant present. By the way, this is Mira Kozain, an IT guru who will be setting up logistics for your assignment and providing gear."

"Nice to meet you," she replies softly, fingers flying over the keys of her computer.

A phone rings on the desk and Jessica answers quickly. "Yes…. Oh excellent, I'll be right there."

Excusing herself, Jessica hurries from the room, presumably to meet the mystery informant. I take a sip of espresso, figuring at least I'll get some answers now from my tight-lipped superiors. Was this a celebrity informant? A movie mogul, or a politician spilling dirt? What other explanation could there be for all this cloak and dagger BS? Shuffling through my backpack, I pull out my notebook, pen and a recorder. While I love the technology, it's failed me on rare occasion and the tried and true tactic of taking notes has saved my ass.

Flipping to a fresh page, I glance up as the meeting room door opens and nearly fall out of my chair.

_Betty Cooper_.

She's changed little in a decade: a more athletic frame; her cheekbones just a tad more prominent; her hair in loose waves falling on her shoulders. What hasn't changed is the way my heart skips when those sea-green eyes cast their gaze upon me. If she recognizes me—and I doubt she does—she keeps it concealed as she settles into the chair beside Mira. Her hands shuffle and fidget upon the table as she draws a steadying breath.

"Thank you for coming today, Ms. Cooper."

"Betty," she corrects Jessica. "Thank you for being able to meet on such short notice, but as you'll begin to understand, I had to ensure my travel plans were as inconspicuous as possible."

"We're happy to accommodate you. Your intermediary explained the precariousness of your situation," Ryan replies. "Now, Ms. Cooper, before we begin: your wish is to remain anonymous, correct?"

Betty nods firmly. "I intend to utilize the protections afforded a whistleblower, should my identity be disclosed in court, but for now, I prefer to remain anonymous."

"Alright. Here in this room are the only four people who will be aware of your informant status and the story we'll be investigating. Outside of this room, even within the Times, our cover will be that you came in to interview for an internship commencing in October." Ryan gestures to a recording device at his side. "Are you okay with us recording today?"

"Provided said recordings remain secure, off the cloud and do not bear file names that could point to me, then yes."

I'm impressed by her thoroughness, and somewhat alarmed. _What in the hell have you gotten yourself into, Betty?_

"What code name would you like for the audio files?" I ask, gesturing to my own recorder. "We should avoid naming her on them, just as an extra measure of precaution."

Betty's lips curve into a half-smile. "I'd appreciate that. You can call me… Juliet."

A memory comes to mind: grade eight, I think. Reggie Mantle teasing Betty on the bleachers outside as he tries to dodge running laps. She always had a book at hand, and he couldn't understand why she was wasting her time on _nerd stuff_. I was hidden beneath the bleachers, scribbling ideas for short stories in a small, battered notebook, mercifully unnoticed.

"_Shakespeare! That guy doesn't even speak real English!"_

In my mind's eye, Betty flips him off, clearly unimpressed. _"Neither do you, Reggie, which is probably why you're flunking the class._"

I shake off the past, turning on my recorder in tandem with Ryan. Jessica sips her coffee and squares her chair up with Betty's, while Mira's furious typing grinds to a halt.

"It's August 10th, 2018 and my name is Jessica Jansen, Managing Editor of Investigations. In attendance are Ryan Richards, Editor-In-Chief, Mira Kozain, It Specialist, our Investigations Intern, to be referred to strictly as Intern for confidentiality, and our informing member of the public, codename Juliet."

_Huh? Why am I nameless?_ My brow furrows and Jessica shoots me a silencing look.

"Juliet, please explain what has brought you to the Times."

Betty's right hand gathers her wavy hair at the nape of her neck, twisting it over her shoulder. "There have been rumours in our town for years about the dealings of Hiram Lodge, but no one has dared to openly question him. Despite his previous arrest for real estate fraud, he quickly left prison and promptly began buying up several fixtures of the town. He's torn down half of the south side for a mystery project he calls SoDale."

Betty hesitates, shaking her head sadly. Jessica quietly encourages her to continue with an urgency that suggests what comes next is dark—the real meat of the story.

"Last year, Hiram made a play for a parcel of land owned by the Blossoms—as in, the maple syrup Blossoms. They didn't take too kindly to what was an insultingly low offer. Jason Blossom, their son, took particular offense. He made veiled threats about showing the world 'the real Hiram'. He went missing last July 4th. They found his body eleven days later in Sweetwater River. Despite the blatant signs of foul play, no one's been arrested for it. When Sheriff Keller began asking questions about the Lodge deal, he was suddenly removed from office by Mayor McCoy and replaced with a sheriff in name only."

I scribble down keywords, both fascinated and horrified. This is far more than shady real estate dealings. This reeks of a political cover-up. And yet, Betty remains anxious, biting her lower lip.

"Tell us about the reason for you having your intermediary contact us two weeks ago," Jessica probes.

"None of this has ever sat right with me. I took advantage of certain access I have and dug deeper into SoDale and its hidden details. What I found suggests Hiram intends to open a for-profit prison, leaving the impoverished of our town effectively homeless. And that's just business, I get that," Betty spat out with disdain. "But Hiram's real estate moves have coincided with a massive spike in drug dealing in our town. It's a small place, hardly New York. Drugs like pot, or shrooms—sure, of course. A little cocaine, maybe. But this new drug on the street, this hybrid of meth and something far more hallucinogenic, it's a whole other nightmare. And when the Blossom empire, so recently tainted with a heroin scandal, happens to suddenly hand over the land they fought so hard to protect when Jason was alive… It stinks. The number of calls Hiram makes to Governor Dooley? Abnormal, to say the least. And our mayor?"

Betty pauses, collecting her thoughts. I, too, am stunned by Mayor McCoy's seeming complicity. She's been the mayor of Riverdale for years, and I'd always admired her ability to govern with a focus on balancing the haves and have nots. A picture is forming, and it screams of my hometown buckling beneath the weight of Hiram's heavy-handed scheming.

"Do you believe the mayor is complicit?" Ryan asks.

"No, no…" Betty's hands fidget in her lap. "I suspect that Mayor McCoy is operating in fear of Hiram. I further suspect that our governor has been bought and paid for by Hiram, to force through approvals that will allow him to gut my home and turn it into a private prison that conceals a drug trafficking operation."

I gesture to Jessica, tilting my head askance. Given my anonymity on the recording, I'm hesitant to ask any questions. She places a finger before her lips, then gestures in a scribbling motion. _Write it down_. I jot down my query and pass it across the table to her.

"These are heavy allegations," Jessica begins. "You said you have a level of access to his dealings. Have you been able to find any proof to back up your theory?"

"I have some, and I'm trying to gain more. But my window of opportunity is shrinking. I have two more weeks with access to Lodge Industries. The thing is, because of who I am, Hiram watches me closely. I have good reason to believe he's had me followed on multiple occasions. It's why I had to orchestrate our meeting this way. I have to believe I am being watched, even in New York." Her shoulders slump as she leans back in her chair. "I need someone who can move through town and ask questions I can't. I can provide leads, but I can't take action on them."

_Oh, shit_. I think I know why Jessica has practically begged me to start work early. I'm both thrilled and ready to vomit on the plush grey carpet.

Ryan rises to his feet, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. "We've been discussing your dilemma, Juliet, and fortunately, we have a solution. Our Intern is available to work with you on this story. He'll join you in Riverdale and follow those leads."

Glancing at me, Betty frowns. "I don't think you understand. Hiram will question his arrival. He'll check into his background. No offense, but he'll smell the reporter on you. And if you're seen with me… my access will be shut down. I have no doubt on that."

"Our Intern has a valid reason to arrive in town," Ryan continues. "An authentic cover: his family still lives there."

Betty's eyes widen. "Wait… It's been bothering me this entire meeting, but I had dismissed it as nothing. You're from Riverdale?"

I nod slowly, glancing at Jessica. My notes, increasingly distracted and garbled, are abandoned.

"Intern is not yet on our payroll, and will not be on the payroll until after the assignment is complete. Mira will arrange payment of wages and expenses through a shell company owned by an ally. A cover story will be concocted, masking him as a freelance photographer for stock photo sites. It corresponds with his background well enough to be believed, but diverts from his writing."

Betty seems satisfied with this. "Will we be able to meet privately later tonight? To solidify your identity, perhaps make up reasons why we would associate in town?"

"Of course," Jessica answers for me as my heart skips a beat.

Her palm slips into the front zippered pocket of her large purse, tugging free a business card. She snatches my pen from my notebook and scribbles something on the reverse.

"Call the switchboard at six tonight," Betty orders me. "Ask for messages for Truman. The message will tell you when and where to meet me tonight. If they fail, call the number on the card and tell her you're Truman as a failsafe."

"Shutting off recorder," Ryan announces, and I quickly follow suit.

Jessica thanks Betty for coming in, and assures her the Times will do everything to protect her. Betty nods, but I can sense her skepticism. Rising slowly, I offer her my hand. She shakes it firmly, asserting herself as someone not to be fucked with.

Just as I remember her.

"Have we met before?" she asks softly.

"We had several classes together," I reply. "Don't feel bad; I was determined to be invisible."

"I pride myself on my observation skills. This is going to bother me…"

She raises her eyebrows, an unspoken query. Half of me wants to leave her guessing, but the professional in me knows we need to start off on a foundation of honesty and open communication.

"Jughead Jones. Yes, that's my name. No, you're not getting my legal name. Yes, it's worse," I add quickly, sensing her follow-up before her lips can part.

"Tonight then, Jughead. Call at six sharp. I can only wait so long without arousing suspicion."

I've fallen into a spy novel. Call Clancy. I'm sure he'd have a field day writing the tale of the high school loser heading to a clandestine meeting with a prom queen beauty with the mind of a Nobel prize winner.

"You can count on me," I assure her.

"I hope so. Our lives will depend on it. Jessica, I need to go or my cover will be blown."

Jessica hurriedly moves for the door. "Of course, I'll walk you out. Mira, please start setting up Jughead's cover—"

"It's already done, Jess," she interrupts with a smirk. "I'll walk you through it, Jughead."

I can't help but watch Betty depart, her purse clutched tightly in hand. Her confidence and poise are polished, but like any poker player, she has a tell: the way her fingernails curl into her palms, almost certainly inflicting pain.

She's scared, and it's contagious.

_What in the fresh hell am I walking into?_


	3. We used to be friends

**Here's another chapter for you!**

**I'm having a day surgery this week, but I have banked four chapters of this story in case I don't feel well for a while. I'll post weekly until I'm actively writing again. **

**Reviewer: I actually didn't mind the G&G angle once the finale hit, but I do like the idea of a more straight up sleuthy tale. We will definitely see Cheryl and Toni along the way. **

**Chapter title taken from The Dandy Warhols' "We Used To Be Friends"**

**I'm disclaiming.**

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**"A long time ago, we used to**** be**** friends..."**

**Jughead: 3 Weeks Ago**

I sit in a Starbucks on 6th Avenue, sipping a tall blonde and ignoring the Freudian implications of my order. I'm due to call the Ritz-Carlton front desk in ten minutes, and if Betty is as driven by detail as I sense she is, our meeting will surely be nearby.

Absently, I open up Facebook with my fake profile, a throwaway under the name of Dylan Ulrich. I use it for online sleuthing, and secretly enjoy making fake updates to amuse the scammers I befriend to look like a popular soccer-loving jock with a passion for dudebro comedies. My fingers fly, calling up profiles for Betty Cooper in the US. Nothing. _Hmm._ I try again, under Elizabeth Cooper, and there she is, third result from the top.

_Elizabeth Cooper (Betty). Hometown Riverdale, NY. Lives in New York City._ _Attending Columbia, class of 2022. Studying Journalism and Political Science._

I think back to when she hinted at Hiram's natural suspicion of her. _A journalist with an interest in politics? A landmine for a career criminal who's manipulating politicians_. All the same, I grin when I realize we're both attending Columbia in the Fall.

"How did you get past him in the first place?" I murmur, flipping through her profile pictures.

The answer lies in the third image: a picture of Betty in a Riverdale cheerleader uniform, arms around the neck of a stunning Latina in matching ensemble. They are smiling widely, standing in front of a football field. Tagged in the photo: Veronica Lodge.

_You're friends with Hiram's daughter. Damn_. I immediately wonder if Veronica is complicit, or if she's recruited Betty to shake the skeletons loose from her father's closet.

I check my watch, swallowing hard at the 5:59 on the display. Time to find out what's next on the agenda for "Truman". Draining my coffee, I place a call on the burner phone Mira gave me after our meeting. The reception picks up after three rings.

"Ritz-Carlton Manhattan, how may I assist you?"

"Picking up messages for Truman," I reply casually in spite of my nerves.

A beat. "Ah, yes. Mr. Truman, you have one message. Your meeting location has been moved to room 1101 at 6:15."

"Thank you very much."

My instincts paid off: we're meeting in the hotel. But if we're meeting at her room, why not just say so? I pack my bag quickly, making the ten minute walk Google directs me on in a brisk seven minutes. I nod to the concierge on arrival, feigning like I've been staying there for days. The place is ridiculously swanky, nicer than anywhere I've ever been. I knew Betty's family lived comfortably when I was a kid, but this is just _beyond _fancy.

1101 is a corner suite, I soon discover, adding to my confusion. It's 6:13, a little early, but I knock anyway. I need answers—like how a university student affords a suite at one of the nicest hotels in the city.

A male voice responds through the door: "Who is it?"

"J- Um, Truman," I reply quietly.

Locks disengage and the door swings open, revealing a familiar redhead with a nervous expression. "Come in, quickly."

As the door closes behind me, I shake my head in disbelief. "Archie Andrews?"

"Jughead Jones! It's been forever, man."

Archie embraces me without warning. It's a welcoming embrace, the kind reserved for the best of friends. Once upon a time, we were close friends, spending our afternoons together at his house or catching movies at the Bijou. We tried to stay in touch when I moved to Toledo, but Archie had become swamped with sports and girlfriends, and… well, friendships fade. Fact of life.

"Archie, it's good to see you, although _why_ I'm seeing you right now is a bit confusing."

"It'll all make sense in a few minutes, Jug."

A door opens in the far corner of the suite with a soft _click_. I turn, expecting Betty to emerge, but am surprised once more as a raven-haired beauty dressed in a runway-ready evening gown emerges. I know her too, thanks to my sleuthing.

"Veronica Lodge."

She smirks as she approaches us, pressing her lips to Archie's cheek. "Clever. Just as you described him to me."

She extends a hand and I accept, shaking firmly. The ornate suite makes far more sense now. _Veronica's footing the bill for this stay_. Her dark brown eyes scrutinize me closely, and I am suddenly self-conscious in my faded jeans and oversized cable knit sweater.

"Where's… Juliet?" I ask, eager to focus on the purpose of this visit to the wealthy side of town.

"On her way. You can call her by name here; I had my personal security sweep the suite for monitoring devices."

The flippant tone of her voice is jarring. You'd think she was speaking of taking out the recycling to a garage.

A firm knock sounds on the door and Veronica moves past us to answer. "B! So glad you could join us for dinner!"

The greeting is loud—louder than necessary. Loud enough for casual listeners nearby to take note of. The women embrace tightly, stepping into the suite and locking the door. Veronica's posture remains relaxed, but Betty is tense, eyes scanning the room quickly.

"You're sure, V?"

"Yes, silly. I paid cash for this room, booked it under a boarding school friend's name. My room is on the ninth floor. I've had it swept. We're safe. I even ordered dinner for us all." Turning to me, Veronica frowns. "I do hope you haven't gone vegetarian or vegan since Archiekins last saw you."

"Nope, still eating too many burgers," I joke weakly.

"Excellent! I've ordered you the filet, same as Archie and I. Betty, I got you the salmon, the one you loved last time we were here."

Betty manages a half smile. "Thanks, V. Is there wine?"

"Hello? Of course there's wine. Two bottles chilling on the minibar. Archie, can you pour us a glass?"

Betty gestures to a nearby sofa and I follow her lead, taking a seat closest to the door. Growing up in the chaos of gangs and substance abuse, you learn quickly to prioritize a speedy retreat. She's wearing an elegant strapless cocktail dress in a royal blue, her wavy hair pinned up on the left side.

"I'm sorry, if I'd known our plan would have been a fancy dinner, I would have told you to dress up."

"It's fine. I packed so quickly, I left my suit at home," I reply, forcing myself not to stare.

She pivots on the cushion, facing me as Archie hands each of us a glass of wine. I've never been a big drinker—an alcoholic father and cocaine-addicted mother will make you wary—but I need something to steady my nerves.

"We'll be in the study until dinner arrives," Veronica announces. "If you need us to plan anything, just call for us."

"Thanks, V."

Betty waits for the couple to disappear behind the study door before she speaks once more. "Archie told me you two were friends when we were little. Which made me realize that I do remember you. When we were in grade school, you were always over at Archie's house. We used to hang out."

"We did," I agree. "Then you and Archie became more popular and I… retreated."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's how I wanted it."

"But not how you needed it to be," Betty challenges, her gaze fixed upon me.

I shrug. "My needs were never anyone's priority, not even my own, if I'm honest."

"I can relate," she whispers, curling her hand into a loose fist.

There's a strange energy here, an undercurrent of tension. I can't put my finger on it, but it makes me want to edge closer and run screaming simultaneously. _Focus on the story_, I admonish myself.

"You know more than you told Jessica and Ryan, don't you?"

Betty chuckles darkly. "I was wondering if you'd picked that up. I'm sorry, I wasn't comfortable with Ryan and Mira. Jessica, I get a good feeling from. I couldn't read them, and you… I wasn't sure how or if I knew you, and it threw me off."

"Will you tell me?"

She leans back, resting her back in the corner of the sofa. I can feel her sizing me up, gauging my trustworthiness. It's already taken a leap of faith for her to come forward at all. Our shared childhood is a blessing and a curse, given the town's corruption.

"Are you going to record it?"

"I'd like to, but I don't have to."

"We need a codename for you," she muses.

I smirk. "I thought you'd given me one already."

"You can be Truman if you like. I just thought I'd give you an option."

Gesturing around the room, I shrug. "If this ain't a scene from _Breakfast at Tiffany's_, what would be?"

"Touché, Jones. Alright, let's talk."

Recorder out and on, notebook at the ready, we recap our afternoon meeting, with further details given. Betty overheard a phone call between Dooley and Hiram that implied Hiram took care of a rather hefty gambling debt in exchange for the promise to push through the prison's development. She also reveals Hiram's possible leverage over Mayor McCoy: she's having an affair with Sheriff Keller—_the _Sheriff Keller.

"Her pre-nup makes it pretty clear that she'll be professionally and financially ruined if that affair is revealed," Betty elaborates. "There's also this…"

She passes me her phone, and I examine a photo of a document. It's a note—unsigned—that suggests if the recipient doesn't mind their business, they will "end up like your lover".

"My sister got this, along with a shattered porcelain doll," Betty recounts. "Jason Blossom was her boyfriend. She was pregnant when he disappeared. The strain of his murder was too much and she miscarried in her fourth month."

"I'm so sorry to hear that." I pass her phone back, squeezing her hand gently in empathy.

"I know this is a little crazy, trying to takedown someone I suspect to be a major crime boss." Betty pauses, draining her wine glass in a hurried gulp. "The last person who tried to take him down was murdered. I don't want to die. But I will not let my hometown be destroyed. I can't sit and watch it all be torn to pieces. I need your help. I need you to stop him."

"Why not take it to the police?"

"He's got the governor in his pocket. The sheriff is on his payroll. This has to be public. The pressure needs to be on them all to ensure justice is carried out."

I can't fault her logic. If he can control the local and state police, the investigation will be buried—and Betty, too, might find herself six feet under.

"Alright. So, I can go to Riverdale, cover it with a visit to my dad. It's been at least four years since I've seen him, so a prolonged catch-up does look natural. Jessica and Ryan are employing me at a small tech company that deals primarily in stock images and website templates."

"But I need to be able to meet you without arousing any suspicion. If we'd stayed in touch when you moved away, even on social media, we'd have reason to hang out and catch up, just like your dad… _Wait._ Isn't your father FP Jones?"

I grimace. "Um, yeah. I know what people say, but he's really a decent guy, especially since he went through AA—"

"Oh, he is! I know him."

I drop my pen on my notebook, scratching my head. "And how exactly do you know my father?"

"The same way we're going to explain spending time together. That is, if you're any good at acting."

"You've lost me completely now."

Betty bounced in her seat, grinning widely. "Oh, this is perfect! It's the perfect cover."

My patience is wearing thing, aggravated by the potential implications of Betty and my father being acquainted. "_What is_?"

"You'll come to Riverdale to visit your dad. As Serpents do, you'll go hang out at the Whyte Wyrm. And that's where it happens: we meet up, reminisce and date."

A public meeting, our childhood connections… I'm on board with this plan, until that final word registers. _Date. Date?!_ Betty is beaming with pride at her little plan of action, but I'm baffled, bewildered and bordering on nausea. I don't date people. I'm too much of a lone wolf to manage most friendships, and every woman I've dated has grown tired of it within a few months.

"Did you say date?"

Betty frowns. "I'm sorry, are you dating anyone right now?"

"I—No, but—"

"Excellent! Think of it: it will allow us to spend late nights alone, where we can't be heard. That new relationship mojo will dismiss any concerns of too much time together. It'll even give you an excuse to swing by the office. It's perfect!" Betty hums triumphantly, rising to her feet. "More wine?"

"Um, yeah. Juliet, you're overlooking one critical detail: I'm a weirdo loner. I… I don't do dating," I reluctantly admit.

She reaches for the wine bottle, shaking her head. "It's not a real relationship, silly. You do know how to take a girl to dinner, act like you're happy to see her?"

"Any asshole can manage that," I scoff. "I just… What if I do something that most guys wouldn't do, something that makes it seem fake?"

Betty pours herself a glass of wine, returning with the bottle to fill his to the brim. "Well, if you've always been awkward by your own admissions today, won't that actually seem genuine?"

_Goddamn, she's smart._ I have to admit, she's got a point.

"And Archie can help you! Since you're old friends, it'll make sense if you're asking him for advice, right?" Setting the now empty wine bottle down, she places her free hand on my shoulder. "It's two weeks, maybe three. Would pretending to like me be so terrible?"

I swallow down the lump in my throat, my mind wandering to the potential implications of fake dating Betty. Like kisses, for example.

"No, of course not."

"Let's toast, then! To taking down a crime boss."

Our glasses clink, the golden liquid within sloshing up the glass. My cheeks are flushed, but whether it's the wine or the thought of being close to Betty's curvy frame, I neither know nor care to explore.

Room service arrives and I turn off my recorder. _It's just a story, Jones. Just a story_.

I'm not going to think of the crush I had on her when I was twelve. I'm going to ignore the way my heart races when she smiles. This is a story. My job. We're going to pretend to casually date while saving our hometown from a dark future, and then I'll move to New York and continue my career.

No big deal, right?


	4. Into the fire, I'm reunited

**So my surgery was delayed to next Tuesday due to illness, but fear not - I have a stash of chapters! And here is the next one, which gives us our first Betty POV...**

**Chapter song: Into The Fire - Sarah McLachlan**

**I'm disclaimed!**

* * *

**"Into the fire, I'm reunited..."**

_**"Mother, teach me to walk again  
Milk and honey, so intoxicating  
Into the fire, I'm reunited  
Into the fire, I am the spark..."**_

**Into The Fire - Sarah McLachlan**_**  
**_

**Jughead: 20 Days Ago**

I'm lying in bed, scrolling through Twitter to avoid a phone call that's more urgent by the second. Every time I open my contacts list, my stomach swirls with acid.

I know it's unfair to expect the worst on the other side of the line after four solid years of sobriety, but ten years of history haunt every interaction with my father. I love him dearly, but when he's drunk, he is cruel, his tongue sharper than any blade he could slit my throat with. Fists would be easier to forget.

I'm supposed to drive to Riverdale tomorrow, but I've yet to arrange the cover for my arrival. I've packed everything, ready to move to New York after this assignment's through. I've called my sister to check in, making sure my mother's drug habits aren't interfering with keeping a roof over JB's head and her belly fed with more than ramen noodles. I've even friended Archie on Facebook and made carefully planned posts about catching up soon.

_Call him, Jughead. You're being an idiot_.

"Betty knows him. She likes him. He must be sober still," I remind myself as I again pull up his number.

The evidence helps. I hit send, my hand shaking as I await the voice on the other side. Two rings, then three.

"_Hello?"_

"Hey Dad, it's me. How are you?"

"_Jug! My boy! It's been ages. I'm good, real good. How are you?_"

No slurred speech. He hasn't mistaken me for anyone else. Sounds like he's still on the wagon. My shoulders relax as I turn over, staring at the night sky through my bedroom window.

"I'm great. I got a job in New York, starts up in September."

"_That one you were telling me about, the gopher gig? Congratulations!_"

"Yeah, that one. And since it means I've gotta pack up and move states, I was thinking that it's been a long time since I've seen you. I was hoping… I mean, if it's not a bother—"

"_You comin' to visit, Jug?_"

His voice is brimming with hope, the hoarseness betraying the tears miles away. Dad's been asking me to come visit for years, but I've been admittedly hiding behind school as an excuse for my wariness. I miss him, more than I usually admit, but the instinct to flee nibbles at the back of my brain like a starving rat.

"I'd like to. Maybe for a few weeks? I was talking to Archie recently online and he mentioned going home for a visit and it just… It seemed like the right time."

"_It's always a good time for you to visit, boy_."

My fingers tug on my hair, the sharp pain suppressing the sudden wave of grief roiling within. The years we've lost are gone forever, and it will always sting.

"Thanks, Dad. Okay, so I'll hit the road tomorrow morning. Figure I'll be there by late evening. You're still a night owl, I assume?"

My father chuckles loudly. "_You know it. That's when the night's just getting started, far as I'm concerned. I'll make up the spare room. Anything special you want me to have in the kitchen for you?"_

"Just coffee. Lots of it."

"_Some things never change._"

He hesitates on the other end and I wait, knowing my father is a man of few words, someone who carefully considers every sentence uttered.

"_I'm really glad you're coming to visit, Jug. I know last time wasn't the greatest. I was just kicking booze, and I could be a bear, and I'm sorry you had to see it._"

"Better than when you were drinking," I counter.

"_Yeah… Yeah, you're right. But it's better now. I wish your mom could make the same choices._"

I sigh, thinking of my mother's refusal to entirely kick her drug habits. "Me, too. But you know that you can't make someone get sober unless they're ready to do it."

"_That's the fucking truth, right there. Alright, Jug, I have some club business to attend to, so I gotta go. But I'll see you tomorrow._"

"Tomorrow, Dad. I'll call you when I'm about an hour out, alright?"

"_Sounds good. Drive safe, boy. I love you._"

"Love you too," I manage before quickly hanging up.

A tear slides down my cheek, and I swipe at the furious traitor. I'm too old for this shit. Too old to be crying over the childhood I was denied. I'm a man, now. I have a degree, and I've got a free ride for my Master's. I have a great job at a major paper. There's nothing to cry over here.

_I just need sleep_. I'm exhausted. That's all this is. I set my alarm for six and slide under the covers, pulling them over my head. I absently open up Facebook, flipping through Archie's photos. In an album added a month ago, I find a picture of him with Betty and Veronica. The women are flanking him in their bikinis on a beach in California. Betty's hair is in a loose ponytail, her smile carefree. Veronica's leaning in closer, the intimacy of their connection lying in Archie's hand planted on her upper thigh.

_Summer escape with my two best girls_, Archie had captioned it.

_My sister and my mister!_ Veronica had commented with several heart emojis.

_And two hours later, Archie was a lobster LOL_, Betty's comment read. I chuckle, thinking back to childhood, when no amount of sunscreen could save my ginger-haired friend.

My chest aches as I wonder, for a fleeting moment, if this could have been my life, too. Could we have become a foursome of friends, taking impulsive trips to sunnier skies and going to prom and whatever else people normally do in high school, instead of taking their mothers to the ER and packing lunches for their kid sisters.

_The past is gone, Jughead. The future is all you can control_.

I set my phone aside and close my eyes. Tomorrow, Truman takes over. Tomorrow begins the life of a Jughead not yet jaded by the world and its failings. Tomorrow, I become the man who should be taking photos like Archie's.

* * *

**Betty: 19 Days Ago**

"Cheryl! I can't find the dress you said I could borrow."

I frantically flip through my cousin's side of the closet, desperate to locate something suitable for the Wyrm that also doesn't scream _perfect little girl_ like half of my clothing. While Veronica's generous hand-me-downs over the years have helped me shake off the pastel pinks and yellows my mother forced upon me as a teen, tonight's outing is a celebration of Joaquin becoming a full-fledged Southside Serpent. I want to belong with the powerful women of the Serpent world, and, for some reason, nothing of mine seems good enough tonight.

_Maybe because you're trying to impress Jughead?_

I shake my head furiously, dispelling the thought. Why would I need to impress him? He's a co-worker, basically. A colleague. This entire meeting will be staged, right down to Archie tagging along to introduce us.

"Cousin of mine, did you bellow?" Cheryl asks, poking her head inside the closet.

"Yes! Where is that black dress you said I could borrow? You said it had lace and a halter top?"

Cheryl rolls her eyes, _tsk_ _tsk _noises clucking from her tongue. "No, I said I could either lend you a halter top and a black leather mini-skirt _or_ a lace dress, which happens to be in an icy blue to match my wicked heart."

She gently nudges me aside, flipping towards the back of the closet. "I bought her for a change of pace, but my trademark red always beckons me back. You can keep it, honestly. Ah, there you are!"

She tugs a hanger free from her extensive collection of garments, the pale blue peeking through the translucent garment bag. Handing it to me, she twists her damp hair over her shoulder and frowns at the rack.

"Now, to find my ensemble for tonight. I'll see if I have a perfect shoe for your outfit."

"Okay, sure. Thank you, Cheryl."

I stumble away to my bedroom, the dress carefully draped over my arm. When my cousin asked me and my sister Polly to move into Thistlehouse with her and Nana Rose after she cut ties with her parents, I was initially wary. Cheryl had spent the majority of our lives reigning over school and being a bitch, to be blunt. A year ago, everything changed between us. Jason's murder had shaken Cheryl, his twin sister. He was her best friend in the world, and her ally against their cruel parents. During the course of the investigation, it was revealed that the Blossoms and Coopers were distant cousins, and in the midst of the heartbreak of Polly's miscarriage, Cheryl had swooped in to offer love and support.

When Cheryl left home, choosing to live with her Nana, she had invited us to move in with her. "You're family," she'd affirmed, "and as much as I love Nana Rose, I miss having someone my age around me. I miss having a sibling."

With our parents battling through a nasty divorce, Polly and I accepted. And while we sometimes butt heads, Cheryl has slowly lowered her guard with us, revealing a tremendous heart and fierce loyalty. I love her, even if I still catch myself waiting for "Cheryl Bombshell" to rear her angry head.

Hanging the dress on the back of my bedroom door, I nervously unzip the garment bag. Inside, I find a sleeveless A-line dress with a scoop neckline in a stunning shade of pale blue. It's a lace over satin style, with a band of see-through lace hitting close to the waist. I hold it up against myself, wincing at how it scarcely hits mid-thigh.

"This is so short!" I yell out to Cheryl.

"Hence why it is sexy as hell, Betty!" comes the reply.

My mother's voice is screaming in my head, telling me I'll look like a harlot, that I need to be modest to gain respect. My normal go-to at the Wyrm is a pair of dark jeans and a halter top or blouse, but Veronica has insisted we all dress up nicely for Joaquin's party. I'd argued it was a biker bar and casual was the watchword, but she refused to back down on her cocktail dress demands.

"This is way too much for the Wyrm," I shout, hanging it on the door. "I'm wearing jeans."

Cheryl appears at my doorway, still clad in her red kimono robe. In her left hand is a cropped black leather jacket; in her right hand, a pair of black knee-high boots with a heel.

"Cousin mine, it's all about accessories. Add a pair of pumps and an elegant wrap, and that dress will take you to the finest soiree. Add a sexy boot and a little leather, and she's ready to get down and dirty."

She slides the jacket over the dress on the hanger and holds the boots beneath it. I tilt my head and study the look, a smile creeping over my face. She's right (of course): the boots and jacket bring the look to a more casual, sexy vibe.

"No necklace, smoke out that eyeshadow and a nude lip. You'll be the sexiest woman there, besides _moi_."

Cheryl sets the boots down and disappears down the hall, presumably to pick out an outfit that will put mine to shame. I shut my door and settle at my vanity table, glancing at my outfit once more. I wonder what Jughead will think of me in this dress and immediately blush.

_Get ready! No more daydreaming!_

I turn my attention to my makeup, quickly applying primer as I reflect on the last few days. While it had taken me several minutes to recognize him—he'd changed so much in the last nine years—I had outright lied when I feigned not remembering Jughead. Of course I remembered him. Archie, he and I were inseparable in the summers of our childhood. Archie had been the outgoing, friendly guy, but Jughead had always been the quicker wit. And even when he'd pulled away in grade seven, I'd still find myself drawn to him in the schoolyard. In him, I'd sensed a darkness, an intimate understanding of what it meant to feel alone in a crowd. Archie's parents had split up, sure, but they'd never taken that out on their son. And while Archie had spent years envying me for my parents, I'd go home and scream into a pillow as they fought viciously, dragging Polly and I into their cold war as pawns.

Applying my foundation, I think of how he's changed: broader chest, tanned skin, his once tangled curls a messy, soft frame around his face. And those eyes… dear God! It had taken every ounce of self-control not to stammer and stare on that sofa in Veronica's suite.

While rationally, I knew my plan to fake-date was a perfect cover for his presence, I couldn't deny an ulterior motive. Aside from a doomed fling with Chuck Clayton and a boring courtship with Trev Brown, I'd been single for years. Oh sure, I'd had a few steamy Tinder hook-ups, but they were precisely that: sexual satisfaction only, no strings. Every guy seemed to shove me into a box of expectations too impossible to live up to. So what if I'd rigged things to spend a few weeks with a guy who actually knew me? No strings, no expectations—just good company while taking down a drug dealer and crime boss.

If we happened to kiss along the way, what a shame!

_Give him a reason to look twice_, a wicked voice whispers within.

Shuffling through my makeup collection, I smile as I spy the palette I long ago dubbed _Dark _Betty. Fuck it. If we're going to feign a meet cute, I'm going to knock him off his feet. Might as well sell the story, right?

_Keep telling yourself that._


	5. I'm not brave, I'm just afraid

**Sorry for the delay - been feeling not so great since last week. But here comes another chapter, with plenty of Bughead interaction. **

**Chapter song (really recommend listening to this one, it's so Bughead for this story): When My Body Breaks - Kandle ft Peter Dreimanis**

**Consider me disclaimed.**

* * *

"**I'm not brave, I'm just afraid…"**

**Jughead: 19 Days Ago**

The drive from Evanston to Riverdale is long—nearly twelve hours despite my tendency to aggressively speed—but smooth. My decade-old Jetta holds up, scarcely whimpering at the extended journey, although she guzzles gas a little more than I'm expecting. Whatever, it's a work expense, and I'm able to charge it to the prepaid Visa Mira gave me in New York.

Pulling off to gas up a third time, my GPS tells me we're about an hour away from Riverdale, so I take a moment to call my Dad and then Archie. Both inform me that the Serpents are having a party at the Wyrm to celebrate Joaquin getting patched in. It is Archie who informs me, however, that Joaquin is dating Kevin Keller—as in the former sheriff's son, and one of Betty's best friends.

"So that's why she's been hanging out at the Wyrm," I muse aloud.

"_Yeah, she and Cheryl are there pretty often._ _Ronnie and I swing by sometimes, but they spend a few nights a week there._"

"Cheryl? Wait, as in _Blossom_?"

"_Yeah. They're distant cousins. Weird to think of them as friends after all the shit Cheryl pulled over the years, right?_"

"Um, yeah! Cheryl was terrible to Betty." Pushing aside my surprise, I rip into a pack of gas station jerky. "So this party, will you be there?"

"_Yeah, Ronnie and I will meet you there. The plan is for us to hang out for half an hour, then Cheryl and Betty will arrive and I'll reintroduce you. And then… I don't know. Do you have a plan?_"

I laugh darkly. "I figure my real life strategy of sarcasm and awkward small talk works, and then a number swap. Tomorrow, a public hang at Pop's and away we go with our charade. Arch, you and Veronica have to help us sell this. If you don't believe it, Hiram won't believe it."

"_No problem, we've got your backs. See you in a few hours._"

I disconnect and turn over the engine, popping a piece of jerky in my mouth. My casual rundown for Archie was the first test and it seems I am a better actor than my high school drama teacher thinks. I'm terrified. Nausea is my constant companion and I have no idea how I'm going to fake a fluffy relationship with Betty Cooper. None. Zip. Zilch.

_Her idea, her plan_, I decide. I crank up the radio, drumming along to Foo Fighters as I floor it on this final northern stretch towards my hometown.

* * *

My father's normally stoic, but his emotional welcome leaves me rocking back on my heels as he embraces me tightly. My bags are settled quickly in my old bedroom, and after a quick nap to rejuvenate, we're off to the Wyrm.

"Can't wait for the guys to see you," he gushes as we drive along the main street coursing through the south side. "They're gonna lose it when they see how grown up you are."

"Anyone I'll remember?" I ask, shoving up the sleeves of my long-sleeved black top.

"Tall Boy, you remember him? Long brown hair, deep voice, always brought you a popsicle in the summer?"

I grin. "Oh yeah, I remember him! What about that girl who used to live around the corner in the park?"

"You mean Toni? Yeah, she's in now as a legacy. Girl's always dyeing her hair pink. Tough as nails." Dad makes the turn into the parking lot of the Wyrm and cuts the engine. "Here we are. You're finally legal to be hanging out here."

"Like that's ever stopped anyone." Stepping out of the truck, I survey the scene, noting the cluster of motorcycles near the entrance. "Can't believe we have to dress up for this place."

"Meh, we do it for special occasions. Been a while since a non-legacy became a full member. C'mon, I'll show you around."

The next half an hour is a blur of faces, names and claps on the back. A beer ends up in my hand and I eagerly gulp it, summoning courage for my impending meeting with Betty. Joaquin and Kevin are already in attendance, and I can't help but smile at how readily the Serpents have embraced the couple.

_If only society could take a cue from us bikers_.

Archie taps me on the shoulder halfway through a conversation with Joaquin and Kevin about the latest Marvel film, and all undercover nonsense aside, I find myself embracing my old friend because I really have missed the guy. He introduces me to Veronica and we exchange pleasantries like new acquaintances should. I playfully bring up the time Archie got poison ivy on his ass at camp in the summer before fourth grade, much to Archie's dismay and Veronica's elation. A second beer is joined by celebratory whiskey shots, and I've almost forgotten that I'm not simply home for a visit with family and friends.

And then, the door of the Wyrm swings open, and my jaw hits the floor.

Cheryl Blossom, clad in a barely-there leather mini skirt and a flimsy red blouse, strolls into the bar, arm linked with a stunning blonde beauty clad in leather and lace. I blink hard as a nearby Serpent whistles low, admiring the short dress that cuts a few inches above her knee-high boots and the way her gemstone-green eyes, lined heavily in black, pierce my soul.

Utterly sincere, I turn to our gathered group and ask, "Is that Betty Cooper?"

Veronica giggles, sipping her martini. "That is indeed my bestie. Hey, B! Come over here. We've found a long-lost member of your childhood squad."

Betty glances over, waving eagerly at Kevin and Veronica. Her gaze catches mine and she flushes, ever so slightly, and tugs on the hem of her dress. Cheryl crosses the room quickly with confident strides, Betty close behind.

"Hey Toni, can we get two martinis over here?" Cheryl calls out to the bar. "Happy biker birthday, Joaquin," she coos as she kisses his cheek.

"Thanks, Cher."

Archie, not missing a beat, immediately pulls Betty to his side. "Look who finally came back from Toledo! Jughead Jones, FP's son."

Betty's lips curve into a warm smile. "Wait, our third musketeer? _The _Jughead? Oh my god, hi!"

She throws her arms around me and I stumble slightly, reeling from the contact. Her perfume fills my nostrils—a warm vanilla with a hint of orange—and I wrap my arms around her, returning the embrace with all of the fondness I have held for her since kindergarten.

"Hey yourself," I murmur. "Gotta say, if you'd told me when I was twelve that you and Archie would be hanging around here in our twenties, I would have laughed it off."

"Contrary to the snobbery of some of the North, we recognize that the South is filled with great people," Veronica explained. "Although Kevin taking a walk on the Serpent side certainly encouraged us to visit more often."

Toni Topaz circled the group, passing Betty and Cheryl their martinis, the latter greeted with a kiss on the cheek. "Hey Cher, missed you!"

"You know I always miss you, TT," Cheryl purred.

I glance at Betty, who mouths _Yes, they're dating_ at me. With a shrug, I focus on Archie and Betty, my childhood friends and compatriots in my cover story.

"So, am I the only one of us who actually left Riverdale?" I ask.

"Well, I took a couple years off to help my dad with his construction business while he dealt with some health stuff, but I'm heading to Penn State on a football scholarship in the Fall," Archie replies.

"I went to Emerson," Betty chimes in. "I'm doing my Master's at Columbia in the Fall."

"Really? I've been looking into a Master's at Columbia or CUNY, although I'm taking a year off to work."

We fall into easy chatter within the group, although I make every excuse to engage Betty I can. Her laughter is melodic, and I make it my mission to draw it out as often as possible. Veronica snaps a photo of us with Archie, and my hand slides around Betty's waist, quickly realizing that her dress is nothing but lace there as my fingers press against her soft skin.

Overhead, the music changes to a dark, synth-heavy track and Cheryl shrieks. "Finally, a song to dance to! Ladies, let's go!"

Betty hesitates, glancing down at her dress. "Cher, I'm not exactly mobile tonight, no thanks to you."

"Oh, come on!" Veronica pleads. "My dress is hardly any better."

She isn't wrong: the slinky purple dress is clinging to her like a glove. Not that Archie seems to mind. Speaking of my childhood friend, he proposes a solution.

"Well, then we better come dance with you, protect you from any wardrobe malfunctions." Wrapping his arm around Veronica's waist, he follows her to the tiny dance floor in the centre of the bar, leaving Betty and I as the sole hold-outs.

"You think she'll forget about us?" I ask Betty.

She shakes her head, her large looping curls swaying side to side. "Absolutely not. Would you mind dancing with me, just in case? The skirt flares a bit, but satin has a tendency to ride up…"

"Um, sure. Of course, anything for a friend."

She takes my hand, weaving us between gathered groups of Serpents and their hangers-on, settling on the spot closest to the wall. As she starts to sway to the beat, I try to roughly match her movements.

"Fair warning: I can't dance for shit."

Betty giggles, shimmying her hips. "Neither can I, but I'm pretty sure Kevin and Toni are the only ones with any real talent in here."

We shuffle, step and sway in time with the disco-esque melody, Betty's eyes closing as the music swells. Her hips rotate as her arms stretch above her, and I am acutely aware she's mere inches from exposing her curves to the bar. My hands fly to her hips, subtly smoothing down her skirt. Her eyes pop open, registering my concerned look.

"Thank you, Juggie," she murmurs.

I swallow hard, suddenly parched. "Anytime."

The music shifts into a brooding blues song, plucked acoustic guitar and a mournful female voice. Around us, our friends couple up, leaving us in a limbo of awkward smiles.

"I love this song," Betty whispers.

"Um, should we…" I shake my head. "I mean, let's keep dancing. If you want to?"

Her cheeks flush crimson. "Yeah! Yeah, why not?"

I pull her into my arms, my hands slipping around her waist as hers find my neck. Slowly we sway, as I will myself to push aside how comfortable it feels to have her body against mine. Like we've always been this way. Overhead, the song becomes a duet with a gravelly male voice echoing a shared loneliness.

"_I'm not brave, I'm just afraid  
I let my worries wear me down  
Right to my brain_

_Ain't got no home  
Out on the road  
Where will I go  
When I grow old  
And does my soul  
Have what it takes  
To be alone  
When my body breaks…_"

Betty's fingers trace circles on the nape of my neck as she speaks. "So, how does it feel being back in Riverdale after so long?"

"Weird," I confess. "When we left, my father was a drunk, and everything was a mess. Not that Toledo was much better, honestly. Coming back to my dad sober and you know, like a real _dad_, it's strange. And seeing everyone, it's a bit jarring."

Betty rests her head on my shoulder, humming softly. "That's how it feels every summer for me, only my dad has abandoned us and my mother is a lost shell of herself. Living with Cheryl and Polly keeps me sane, but it's still hard to come back. Weird, when I let myself think of how it used to be…"

"I'm sorry, Betts. My mother has pretty much chosen drugs over my sister and I, so I know how much it hurts to feel… not enough."

"Thank you." She edges closer, clinging to me a little tighter. "Thank you for getting it."

The music swells, two voices chorusing in anguish:

"_I was raised on the run  
Raised on the run  
No one ever told me what we were running from…"_

Undercover mission be damned, Betty was—is a friend. And right now, her pain is palpable. I tuck her head beneath my chin, shielding her from the pain that looms near. In this moment, it is just us. Our lost parents aren't allowed here.

"I could use some air," I murmur.

"I'd like that."

Wrapping my arm around her shoulders, I lead her out a side door into a large alley flanking the bar. Several feet away, a Serpent my father introduced as Fangs nods to us and returns to surveying the main street.

Betty shrugs off her jacket, exposing her bare arms to the cool breeze. "I'm glad you're back, Jug. It's good having us all together again. Reunited."

"Me too. You don't know how much you miss someone until they're back in front of you, I guess."

Betty's eyes drift towards Fangs as she closes the distance between us. "It's weird, but the more we're together, the more I remember. Like that time Mr. Andrews didn't notice we ate an entire box of freezies in an afternoon. Do you remember that?"

I immediately laugh, recalling how we were busted. "If Archie hadn't yacked blue water on the lawn, we may have gotten away with it for a full day."

"I remember I almost cried because I was so sure he'd tell my mom. But he simply explained why so much sugar was bad for us, and asked that we never steal or lie again." Her expression shifts, a darkness settling in. "Fred's a good dad."

"He is. Hey, come here," I urge her, tugging her close. "Fred was my dad for a long time."

She leans into me, resting her head near my heart. Her fingers tap in time with its erratic beat.

"Your heart is so fast."

I glance away, inhaling the cold air to focus myself. "I don't know why…"

"It's this town. It does strange things to you."

_You do strange things to me, Betty Cooper_.

"Feeling better?"

She manages a smile. "Yeah, I do. But I definitely need another drink."

"Co-signed. Let's head inside where it's warm."

I reach for the door but her hand darts out, slamming it shut. "Wait, Jug. Before we go back… They don't know. About how bad things are with my parents."

"I'm good at keeping secrets," I reassure her. "Come on, before my dad thinks I've taken off for another state again."

Her hand finds mine, squeezing it gently. "You got it."

The line between reality and subterfuge is already blurry. I am so fucked.


	6. Won't someone stop this song?

**Sorry, sorry - still recovering and juggling some other stuff right now that's time sensitive But I'm finally feeling well and writing/editing again!**

**Bughead are off on their first official date as a fake couple. Let's see how Betty's feeling about the arrangement.**

**Chapter Song: Stop This Song (Lovesick Melody) - Paramore**

**I disclaim!**

* * *

"**Won't someone stop this song, so I won't sing along?"**

**Betty: 18 Days Ago**

I drum my fingers on the Formica table as I force myself not to glance out the window every minute, searching for the messy curls and pale blue eyes that haunted my dreams last night. Jughead and I agreed to meet at five for dinner here at Pop's. It's not his fault that I was so eager to see him, I sped over from the SoDale HQ and arrived at 4:45.

This first solo date is strategic, as I had Archie explain to him this afternoon. One of the many properties Hiram has snapped up in the last year is Pop's Chock'lit Shoppe. An institution and beloved hangout in Riverdale, Pop Tate was forced to sell out to Hiram after a series of spats between the North and the South sides of town, stirred up by the closure of Southside High and increase in drug overdoses near the diner, slowed business down too far to recover.

Reason only stands that if Hiram owns the diner but has yet to shutter its doors for demolition, he's using it as a means of monitoring the town. Ergo, if I want Hiram to believe Jughead and I are dating, why not grab a cozy meal right here?

I pick up my phone, opening the camera app and flipping to selfie view. My hair is being weird today and it's pissing me off. The curls are more like half curl, half lazy wave, and it has taken some expert makeup to hide the hangover I'm nursing. I reapply my lip gloss, pouting my lips and sighing.

_This isn't even a real date! I'm being ridiculous!_

Hiram better buy this cover story. You'd think I was the one being deceived about our relationship.

My mind rewinds the previous night, a smile crossing my lips as I remember how easily Jughead had blended into our group. It was as if he'd never left Riverdale at all, let alone withdrawn from most of us prior to his move to Ohio. His sarcasm was a perfect foil for Archie's affability, but it was a tiny gesture of quiet empathy that had captured my attention. When Cheryl had mentioned an old prank of Jason's and promptly fallen quiet with grief, he'd softly clinked her glass, offering her fallen brother a silent toast.

He'd also been so kind to me when my own troubled thoughts of home had pushed their way past the fear of Hiram that inhabits my every waking moment. It was a reminder of our younger days, the ones I keep pretending I barely remember.

The bells jangle over the door of Pop's and I glance over, smiling as Jughead enters. I wave him to my corner booth, rising to greet him with a warm embrace.

"Juggie, hey!"

His arms fold around me, the scent of cedar wafting to my nostrils. _Just a friend, just a friend, just a friend…_

"I didn't keep you waiting, did I?"

"Oh, no. You know me, punctual to a fault. Grab a seat."

He settles into the bench closest to the window, offering a vantage point of the front door. I slide into the bench opposite him, hiding my shaking hands in the folds of my summer dress. Pop is quick to greet us, his warm baritone voice soothing my frazzled nerves.

"Jughead Jones, a sight for these tired old eyes!" Pop exclaims, patting his arm. "Where have you been?"

"Ohio, mostly. Missed your food too much to stay away a moment longer," he replies with a grin. "Still make the best cheeseburgers in the world?"

"Chocolate shake?"

Jughead laughs. "Yes, please."

I always glance at the menu, but it's pointless, since my order never changes. "Club sandwich and a strawberry shake for me, Pop."

"Coming right up!"

As Pop retreats, I am forced into making casual conversation without turning crimson like a stupid school girl. This is far too public a venue for us to have any serious shop talk, although I do have a few sneaky tricks up my sleeve tonight.

"What did you do today?"

Jughead shrugs. "Not much. Caught up on sleep since I didn't get a chance to crash after the drive yesterday. Unpacked a few things, did some photo editing for a freelance gig. You?"

"The usual administrative stuff. Filing, faxes, a little light accounting. Guess my mom wasn't being a total jerk making me learn the Register's books in high school. Turns out it's a marketable skill!"

I shoot him a pointed look and he nods, ever so slightly. It's weird how easily we've fallen in sync. Must be the journalism roots we share.

"Oh, I'm sure her motivations were purely selfish. This would be one of those lemons to lemonade moments."

We fall into comfortable conversation, trading stories about college and our shared unlucky draws in freshman roommates. His: a football jock with a penchant for coming in drunk at 3am. Mine: a slob bordering on hoarder, who'd shove her food wrappers under her bed until the room stunk. Our milkshakes arrive, and I revel in that first slurp, before plucking the cherry off and dragging it through the whipped cream.

"Even better than I remembered them," Jughead enthuses, dangling his cherry towards me. "Want this?"

"You don't?"

"Meh, not a huge fan."

"Your loss!" I pluck it from his grasp, swiping it through the cream and devouring it with a smile.

"Ah, but see, now you owe me, Betts. I hope that cherry was worth it."

_Betts_. He keeps calling me that. It's oddly satisfying and… _me_.

"There's nothing you can ask me for that I won't be able to deliver," I assure him, conjuring up a little of my cousin's sass. "Mmm! I found something you need to see."

I glance behind me, determining that we have another minute or two before Pop brings our dinner, and pull a photograph from my purse. Archie, Jughead and I hanging out at the Andrews home, no older than nine as best I can guess. I slide it across the table and he studies it closely. My front tooth is missing in my overeager smile; Jughead's hair is messy and damp from a day of tree climbing; and Archie's shirt is splattered in mud. We're absolutely _adorkable_.

It's a perfectly innocent prop—two old friends, reminiscing. The caption on the reverse, however, is a little less innocent.

"Check out the caption on the back. What a trio we made!" I encourage him, emphasis on _trio_.

The accounting Hiram let me handle today was a new responsibility, one born of desperation. His regular accountant has been off ill for a week with some horrific summer flu, and cheques were due for SoDale contractors. I played a little dumb to reassure him, of course, asking questions that made me seem like a novice. Once he'd disappeared for his afternoon meeting, I sped through payroll in thirty minutes and spent another hour digging into the books.

Mom's tutelage hardly constitutes a forensic accounting degree, but I do understand enough to know that Hiram's purchase of the Twilight Drive-In was far below the usual market value for the land. I also noted several transfers shortly afterwards to numbered companies, transfers that occur after each major real estate move.

I've scribbled the three companies on the back of the photo in pencil, hoping Jughead can tap into Times resources and run a World Check or LexisNexis on them. See what pops up. I'm at the point of assuming my personal internet connection and/or laptop may be compromised, preferring paranoia over a casket underground.

Jughead glances at the caption and grins. "Three little troublemakers," he muses. "Definitely apt. Can I keep this?"

"Of course! That's why I brought it."

He tucks the photo inside his jacket pocket as Pop delivers our meal with a warm smile. Watching him retreat, Jughead shakes his head.

"You surprise me, Betty Cooper. I like it."

We fall into easy chatter around bites of our meal, quickly learning that despite nearly a decade apart, we share a love of several books, both have a penchant for binge watching true crime shows, and have similar podcast subscriptions. We even share a favourite insomnia-busting habit: Plague, a game where the goal is to infect and destroy the entire earth with a single disease. We playfully debate strategy, particularly the best launch point for a new infection.

"You start in China," Jughead argues. "Very close quarters, easy to spread, lots of international flights to get it to new continents."

"Nuh uh, India," I counter. "Same crowded population, lower water filtration, and you have both flights and ships to carry your illness away to Europe and North America."

"My way always wins," he insists, draining the last of his shake.

I roll my eyes, nudging away my empty plate. "So does mine. Bet it's faster than yours."

"We'll have to do a proper playthrough. Four rounds: each of us plays our preferred way and the other's strategy. We compared the days to world destruction at the end and see." Lightly running his hand over his jacket pocket, he gives me a pointed look. "Your place, say Wednesday night?"

_Damn, that's a fast turnaround for those companies!_

"I'd love that. I'll make dinner, and when you lose, you can do all of the dishes."

He leans forward, a smattering of curls tumbling down his forehead in a way that has me squeezing my thighs together. "I'd do the dishes anyway, to be polite. The loser has to make or buy dinner Friday night. Deal?"

"Prepare to feed me Friday, Mr. Jones."

"Of course, your hands will be tired from making dinner. I'll be happy to feed you with my fork." He waves to Pop, signalling for our bill. "This one's on me."

"Oh, no, we'll split it!"

"Betty, it's been a decade. Let me treat you, alright? For all the times you took care of me as a kid, just… let me do this, alright?"

I relent with a small nod as I'm flooded with memories of sadder moments in our youth: the time I'd noticed Jughead had skipped lunch for three days; the times I'd given him my pudding cups because I'd felt self-conscious about my baby fat; and the times I'd given them to him because it seemed like the only thing he ever ate.

He walks me to my car, a hand pressed upon the centre of my back. It feels comforting, a gesture of support. Like old friends, picking up where they left off. I fumble for my keys in my purse, humming triumphantly as I find them.

"Betts?"

"Hmm?"

"Follow my lead," he whispers, leaning into me.

My back is pinned against the driver's side door as his left hand caresses my cheek with a feather-light touch. The beat of my heart is a pounding in my ears, drowning out the parking lot din as his mouth finds mine in the hazy glow of a streetlight. I feel my lips part of their own volition and surrender to the softness of him. He's unhurried, his kiss firm but not aggressive or demanding. He's asking for permission, and I give myself over completely, allowing myself this stolen moment of intimacy. My hands are traitors, gliding along his chest and marvelling at the lean, muscular frame hidden beneath his sweater. To my utter embarrassment, I make a noise that might as well be a _purr_.

His mouth abandons mine, leaving me dizzy and longing. His lips glide along my neck, finding their way to my left ear and revealing the catalyst for his breathtaking behaviour:

"You're right, you're being followed. Grey Volvo sedan, Vermont plate. Hopefully he enjoyed the show."

I shiver, although whether from confirmation of my paranoia or the way the man has lit my body up with a kiss, I can't tell.

"Get home safe, Betts. I'll call to say goodnight."

"Talk soon, Juggie."

He watches me drive away, casually surveying the scene before sliding onto a Harley Davidson. I hope he got the plate of the creep following me, even though I'm certain it's stolen or under some fake name. If Hiram's watching me this closely, we're going to need to be convincing.

Judging from that impromptu lip lock, Jughead's game. And on a purely lust-driven level, so am I.


	7. It's bad enough we get along so well

**Review question: "Why does Betty pretend not to know Jughead?" Hmm, she isn't pretending she doesn't know him at all; she's pretending not to remember him as well as she truly does. We'll see a glimpse in the next chapter of why she's trying to avoid those memories, although she truly didn't recognize him right away at the Times. You'll notice Jughead downplays their pre-teen years, too. He also has reasons.**

**By the end of the story, they'll fess up on these denials and share why they're both so motivated to act like their childhood chumming with Archie is all they remember. **

**Our first Bughead kiss has happened! We know Betty was down with it at the time, but is she okay now? Is Jughead okay? And what have our shrewd investigative journalists uncovered about Hiram so far? Let's find out.**

**Chapter song: Goodnight and Go - Imogen Heap**

* * *

**"_It's bad enough we get along so well."_**

**Jughead: 16 Days Ago**

Thistlehouse is a somewhat foreboding structure, its classic architecture leaning towards a Gothic ambiance. Were it not for the well-kept gardens filled with bright blooms and rich green shrubbery, it would be better suited to a haunted house tour. It does hold its share of ghosts, after all.

I park my car at the end of the winding driveway as instructed, leaving enough space for Cheryl Blossom to pass me en route to the garage. Betty's assured me she is out for the evening with Toni and likely won't come home, but I'm better to be safe than stuck dealing with her wrath. Upside: the walk up the stone driveway will grant me a moment to push away memories of our last meeting.

I'd noticed Betty's tail in the parking lot after I'd settled into the booth at Pop's. He was overdressed for the casual diner, if you could tell a four hundred dollar cardigan from a casual find at a department store—which, given my time working at Nordstrom's to pay college bills, I could do easily. His fascination with Betty's every move grew more obvious the longer we chatted over dinner.

Seems her dark-haired friend was rather impatient—an amateur for a stakeout gig.

As we'd left for the night, I kept an eye on my periphery, wanting to confirm my suspicions. Sure enough, he'd slid into his vehicle the moment Betty unlocked hers. And if she was being watched this closely, I could only assume I would now be of interest to Hiram Lodge's flunkie.

_Gotta sell it_, my mind whispered. _Protect her._

Betty and I had briefly discussed public displays of affection during our chat in New York. We'd decided that we would avoid kissing and making out in public, citing a dislike of PDA, but if a situation arose where we seemed to be scrutinized, we would do whatever it took to seem genuinely attracted to each other. Mercifully, Betty had picked up on my hushed request and gone with the moment.

Trouble is, once I began to kiss her, my teenage crush on her crashed over me like a wave, and… well, I think I went too far. Tongue wasn't necessary, but _my god_, her lips were so very soft. Raw instinct and need had seized control, driving me as I pressed my body against hers. To her credit, Betty hadn't missed a beat, but when I'd called to make sure she arrived home safely, she was quick to excuse herself to sleep.

_Maybe you should apologize_.

I frown as I approach her front door, wondering what's best. Do I apologize right away, or assume that she thought it all to be business? Do I re-open the discussion on PDA for clarity, using it as a means of assessing whether she's upset? Shuffling my feet, I draw a deep breath and ring the doorbell.

_If she seems uncomfortable, apologize. If she doesn't, follow her lead and act like you aren't aching to repeat it_.

The heavy wooden door swings open, revealing a casually cool Betty in a pair of denim shorts and a black off the shoulder blouse. She smiles warmly, and I quickly order my anxious brain to forget all about our entangled embrace against her car.

"Jug, you're here! Come in, I'm just about to pull dinner out of the oven."

We embrace, and it is relaxed and comfortable, like old friends. If Betty's upset about my enthusiastic antics the other night, she has one hell of a poker face. I follow her down a long hallway to the expansive kitchen, where the scent of baking cheese fills my nostrils.

"Something smells delicious," I tell her as I take a seat at the table.

"I figured mac and cheese was a safe bet." She opens the oven, pulling a large casserole dish out and setting it on top of the stove. "And I happen to make a fantastic four-cheese mac."

"I happily volunteer to evaluate your recipe."

"It has to set for a few minutes. Did you want something to drink? We have water, a few different Soda Stream creations, juice? We also have a few beers and a bottle of Chardonnay, if that's more your speed."

My jitters decide for me. "The Chardonnay sounds good."

"Excellent! I hate drinking alone," she replies with a sly smile.

The wine is opened, dinner served and soon it's the two of us, chatting about childhood memories and our favourite true crime podcast. It's an unsolved case involving a mail bomb and the latest episode explores the idea of shady business dealings as the motive. Betty argues passionately for the former business partner turned competitor as a suspect, but my instincts are that the victim's flippant attitude about screwing customers over for money has led to his demise.

We're two glasses in with bellies full of cheesy pasta before we finally get down to the real reason I'm here: to discuss what I've dug up about Hiram's mystery payee companies, as well as how best to prove his dirty dealings. Betty leads the way down a long flight of stairs to a finished basement, gesturing for me to take a seat on an oversized leather couch. Placing a finger to her lips to silence me, she lifts up a box of tissues, revealing an audio jammer. She turns it on and shrugs off my surprise.

"Veronica bought it for me, just in case. Now, we're as alone as we can be in Riverdale."

Her overabundance of caution pleases and worries me. It's a reminder of how high the stakes are in this mess. The sooner we gather enough to expose Hiram, the sooner I can use the Times' coin to hide Betty from his goons.

I reach into my messenger bag, withdrawing my Times-tweaked laptop. Between the fingerprint lock and hard drive encryption, it's also outfitted with a program that demands a separate security key when connecting to a new network. Should the key not be supplied, it remotely wipes out the entire user profile and essentially bricks the machine. Logging in as swiftly as possible, I pull up the documents I've been compiling since Monday night.

"So, I did a search on the companies you gave me and they're all shells, as I'm sure you expected. They're structured as LLCs, or Limited Liability Corporations. Each is owned by a spider web of companies—investments, other LLCs and numbered companies—that eventually trace back to a Nicholas St. Clair."

"Ugh!" Betty hisses, shaking her head. "That piece of scum. He tried to roofie Cheryl two years ago. His family is old friends with Hiram and Hermione though, so it adds fuel to the fire. They've got ties to gambling, both above board casinos and illegal fighting. Veronica's told me about them."

"That all tracks. Hiram launders money through a series of companies to compensate the St. Clairs. But what is their interest in all of this?"

"If I were to take a guess. It's a way to launder their illegal gambling profits," Betty hypothesizes, pacing around the den. "Their dirty money probably comes in through SoDale. Last summer, they were in town for an investors party held by the Lodges. So they invest in one of his projects. Maybe he fudges the purchases on paper, tweaks the numbers so they can pay with the dirty gambling cash. Then, he sends his so-called 'clean' money to the St. Clairs as some return on their investment."

I consider her theory, typing notes into my open research document. "The money's the key to all of this, Betty. I was reviewing the sale of the Twilight Drive-In and you're right: city records suggest it should have sold for twice as much. But when I dug into the disclosure records for the property, I found records of a series of gang-related incidents in the six months prior to sale. Whispers of drug dealing, beatings."

Betty grimaces. "Yeah. They tried to pin it on the Serpents, but they denied it all. I suspect it may have been a rival gang who seem to be tied to that new drug I told you about. Users call it Fizzle Rocks, because it comes in packets that look like Pop Rocks candy and it dissolves in liquid."

"You said that the Blossoms owned land that they refused to sell cheap to Hiram. Land they did eventually sell after Jason died. What was that land?"

"You know where Southside High used to be?"

I ponder this a moment, finally recalling the run-down building a few blocks from the Wyrm. "Yeah, I roughly remember it."

"Well, it was a forested plot behind the school, stretching down to the river's edge."

I lean back against the sofa, my fingers drumming on the seat beside me. If the Twilight land was a means of both furthering Hiram's agenda and laundering money, I naturally assume the Blossom purchase is no cleaner a deal. _Blossom… of course_.

"Betty, this is a Blossom property, no?"

"It is. It's Nana Rose's home. We share it with her, although tonight she's staying at Thornhill with Cheryl's parents." Betty pauses, studying me intently. "What are you thinking?"

"We need to follow both sides of these deals to confirm the cooked books, Betts. That means we need to see what the owner of the Twilight agreed to, and we need to see what happened to the money that Hiram gave the Blossoms for their forest land. Would any of that documentation be here?"

Betty shook her head, settling down beside me. "Probably not, but Thornhill might have files. I'd have to make an excuse to go there."

"Only if you can do so without being caught. If not, I'll try and find another way."

"Of course. I will check here first, just in case. Penelope and Clifford do keep some of their storage items in the east wing."

"This place has wings. Of course it does."

"Demon wings," Betty quips. "So, I'm going to dig for docs on the Blossom sale, and you're going to keep following the money."

"That's the plan." Impulsively, I add, "We should probably have another public outing, perhaps with Archie and Veronica?"

God, I'm a jerk. Taking advantage of this situation to spend time with her. It's those damn sea-green eyes, tempting me to drown in their depths. I lose my mind when she stares at me. Mercifully, Betty seems unfazed.

"That's a wise idea. Friday night? We'll hit up the Italian place in Greendale maybe, finish up at Veronica's speakeasy."

_Sure, finish up at… what?_

"I'm sorry, did I fall into a Tardis and end up in Prohibition-era Riverdale?"

Running a hand through her honey-blonde waves, Betty chuckles. "Yeah, I know, it sounds weird. But Veronica wanted to try and keep tabs on her father and when she heard the basement of Pop's used to be a speakeasy way back when, she struck a deal with him. She keeps all the profits, and has an excuse to hang around the diner."

"I don't remember seeing anything when we were there the other night."

"It's closed Monday and Tuesday. Keeps costs down on. It's 21 and up on Friday and Saturday night, but the rest of the week is all-ages until nine, no booze allowed. Music, dancing, cozy booths to chat in. She's done wonders with it, Jug. So, are you in?"

Hiding in plain sight of Hiram is probably best. And I can't deny that having an excuse to dance with Betty again appeals to me. Maybe I can get Pop to spill something about Hiram's ownership that will further our exposé.

"Alright, I'm in! Now that we've taken care of business, I believe we have a bet to settle…"

I pull up Plague on my laptop and Betty giggles. We settle on parameters: we'll use a bacteria for each round, and each of us will begin with our preferred method of domination, then swap to the other's strategy. Time flies as we playfully goad each other, Betty cursing at the game announcing her preferred symptom combination will be less effective in her first scenario. Me, I wince as my symptom-less spread strategy falls short of Betty's 'let them cough' approach.

In the end, Betty wins, but only just: her technique destroys the world in ten days fewer than mine, when averaged between our respective turns. I'm on the hook for dinner Friday, which I shrug off. After all, it's a work expense.

We call it a night at eleven, with Betty walking me to the door. Her face is slightly flushed from the wine as she lightly kisses my cheek on the front porch.

"Goodnight, Juggie. Get home safe."

"Night, Betts."

It is only when I reach my car and settle behind the wheel that I realize she never brought up the kiss outside the diner. I'm torn between relief and disappointment.


	8. I can feel the heat, but I'm not burning

**Welcome back. Next up: a little sleuthing and a lot of sexual tension, with a bonus flashback to teen Bughead.**

**Chapter Song: Falling - Haim**

* * *

"**I can feel the heat but I'm not burning…"**

**Betty: 14 Days Ago**

"Polly? You home?"

My sister's voice beckons from the kitchen. "I'm here! Not for long, though."

Setting aside my tote bag, I make my way down the hall, embracing my sister in the middle. "You're never here anymore. Might that be due to a certain hottie you met at that club a month ago?"

Her cheeks are scarlet, a fact she tries to hide by swiping her long blonde hair over her face. "Betty, I'm 24. I'm allowed to date."

"Of course you are, and I'm happy for you, Pol. It's just nice to see you for more than a few minutes in the morning."

Polly returns to the stove, where she's cooking her go-to quick meal: a teriyaki stir-fry with tofu and veggies. I yank open the fridge, snatching the last of the iced coffee with a triumphant hum.

"It's just been a while since I've liked someone this much," my sister confesses. "Thomas just… he gets me. He's calming, and he can make me laugh, no matter what."

"That sounds really wonderful," I muse, sipping my drink.

Flipping the stove off, Polly scoops rice from a waiting pot and layers her stir-fry on top. "I just… I don't feel like I have to be anyone but myself around him. If it's a bad day, I can be quiet."

Bad days, of course, meaning when her grief for Jason and their unborn child is overwhelming. While I've met Thomas once or twice, we've yet to spend a significant amount of time together. I need to fix that, as soon as this mess with Hiram is done.

"Well, if he's good to you, then I'm happy to share you with him. But maybe we can have a girls' day tomorrow? Brunch and movies?"

Polly smiles, spearing a piece of broccoli. "It's a date! Kinda like the one you have tonight?"

_Crap._ Cheryl's opened her big mouth again. While we do need to sell this relationship to our friends and family, Polly's always had a sense of when I'm lying. I've been trying to keep her out of the loop to avoid this exact conversation.

"It's not _really _a date," I protest. "More of a catch-up hang. You remember Jughead Jones, don't you?"

Polly nods as she chews. "He was always next door with Archie, right? Whatever happened to him?"

"He moved to Toledo with his mom and sister. Anyway, he came to visit with his dad for a few weeks, and it's like…" I hesitate, thinking of our text conversation today. "It's like Archie, and how we just know each other. Yeah, he's been gone a long time, but we grew up together. It's not a _date_, but we're making up for lost time, I guess."

Polly chuckles, leaning back in her chair. "Not a date, she says as she lights up like the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree."

"Ugh, I'm going to get ready!"

I reach the doorway before Polly pleads with me to wait. Annoyed, I spin on my heel, eyebrows arched in question.

"I'm sorry. It's just… The way you smile when talking about him? It reminds me of how I feel about Thom. And that's something you deserve, after the losers you've been with." Polly shrugs apologetically. "Have fun tonight, and just let it be what it is."

"Thanks," I mumble, hurrying away.

I quickly shower and dress in a slinky purple dress with barely there spaghetti straps at the behest of Veronica, who insists I don't wear enough of the colour. I keep my makeup simple tonight, more to my usual tastes. Sweeping my hair back in a loose pile of curls, I glance over at my bag.

My trip to Thornhill last night paid off: under the guise of looking for an item of Jason's for Polly, I've scored a folder of financial statements for the Blossom maple business that, for the most part, seem to be in order. There's one intriguing detail: a monthly payment of ten thousand dollars to a shell company I know Hiram owns. Payments that cease the month Jason was murdered.

Whatever this payment is for, I have no doubt it's connected to the property Hiram sought and eventually purchased from them. The knot in my stomach is painful, as I delicately tuck the papers into my purse for the evening. I'll hide the bulk of it here at Thistlehouse, but the months surrounding Jason's death and the month of the land deal will be passed off to Jughead. There's a chance of rain tonight, so I plan to bring a light jacket this evening—one I will conveniently stow in the trunk of his car, along with the documents.

My phone rings on the vanity table, the comforting voice of Emily Haines filling the room: _"My visions were right, decisions were made in the alleys that wind through the back of mind…"_ I glance at the display and grin at Jughead's name.

"Hello?"

"_Hey Betts, I'll be there in five. You ready to go?_"

"Yes, just gathering my things up now."

"_Great! I'm just down the street. Meet you out front."_

"See you in a few, Juggie," I confirm, ending the call with a loud exhalation.

The things that man does to me are downright unholy. I really need to get a grip.

Stepping into my favourite wedge heels, I head outside, where Jughead's Jetta is pulling into the driveway. I have my raincoat in hand, casually draped over my purse. While I don't believe Hiram is watching me here 24-7, I'm wagering Jughead's presence will pique his curiosity. Dressed in a black dress shirt, tie and grey slacks, Jughead smiles warmly as he exits the vehicle.

"Hey, Betts. You look amazing!"

"Thank you. You clean up quite nicely, yourself." _I'm blushing, aren't I? Oh crap, I'm making an unprofessional ass of myself!_

Jughead shrugs, his palm pushing an errant strand of hair from his eyes. "Well, I already let you show me up at video games. Couldn't let you upstage me at our date, too."

"If the clouds open up, there will be nothing to save me from looking like a drowned rat, except maybe this coat. Can I leave this in the trunk?"

I raise my eyebrows, ever so slightly, as I stress the last word. Without missing a beat, Jughead leans into the car and pops the trunk for me. We round the car together and I note he stands at an angle beside me, offering a level of cover.

"Brought you some reading," I murmur, slipping the papers inside the coat and laying my little package down carefully.

His arm wraps around my shoulders, squeezing lightly. "Relax, Betts. It's all good. I did a loop around the property before calling you."

I lean into the embrace, my pulse racing—from the fear of Hiram or the fear of my growing feelings for Jughead, I can't say. But the comfort is needed, and I'll take what I can get.

"We should get going," I murmur.

He walks me around the car, holding open my door with an exaggerated flourish. I laugh loudly at the unexpected and absurd gesture before planting an impulsive kiss upon his cheek. I swear he mumbles something under his breath, but he denies it when pressed, so I let it go.

The drive to Greendale passes quickly as we fall into easy banter about politics, the latest episode of 90-Day Fiancé (which I am determined to make him watch), and the new single by Otherkin, a band Jughead adores that I haven't heard of. For a while, I forget why we're playing at dating, forget about the small packet of papers hidden in his trunk. It's just _easy_ between us, like when we were little. I think of how Polly described Thom, and I see the parallels.

It figures that the relationship I'm faking is the best one I've ever had.

Archie and Veronica have beaten us to Casa Leone's, but they're too busy making out in Archie's car to mind. Jughead pulls in beside them, smirking.

"I bet we could slip inside before those two noticed, act like they're late."

"Bet we could even grab wine before they join us," I concur.

With a little care opening and closing our respective car doors (and Jughead's brilliant idea to cross behind their car and loop back inside the restaurant), we make it in, announce our reservation and are escorted to our waiting table. I shoot Veronica a text a few minutes later, gently chiding their tardiness, while giggling over my wine.

"You're enjoying this, Cooper."

"I am. Aren't you?"

He hesitates, a strange, indiscernible emotion crossing his features. With a slight shake, he reaches for his water.

"I'm just enjoying hanging out with you," he replies softly.

Before I can pry into the deeper meaning of his words, Veronica and Archie arrive in a hurried huff, the latter shrugging off a cashmere wrap in a stunning shade of red.

"We are _not tardy_," Veronica insists. "We were waiting for you in the parking lot so we could enter as a foursome."

"Can't imagine how you missed our arrival," Jughead muses playfully, winking at Archie.

Our childhood friend's cheeks match his hair as he settles into the chair beside Jughead. "I could use a drink! Ronnie?"

"Parched," she agrees, settling in beside me.

Our dinner is a welcome distraction from the cloak and dagger of my daily life, as we trade stories of our youth over heaping plates of pasta. The guys take advantage of their relative sobriety, teasing Veronica and I over a certain girl-on-girl kiss during cheerleading tryouts in our junior year. Veronica offers to re-enact the moment to my mortification, but thankfully Archie puts an end to it.

"It'd be like watching my sister and my girlfriend make out!" he protests, as Jughead wheezes from laughing.

Veronica rises slowly, grabbing my hand. "Well then, we'll just take this somewhere more private. The ladies room, B?"

Downing my wine, I rise to my feet and gamely play along. "Wouldn't be the first time," I purr, winking at Archie.

Archie buries his face in his hands. "Oh, dear God, stop!"

Veronica and I retreat to the bathroom, where I address the half litre of wine in my bladder and Veronica fixes her lipstick. As I wash my hands, she blots and studies me with that focused gaze that tells me she's got something on her mind.

"Spill it, V."

"You and dear Truman are looking mighty cozy," she sing-songs.

"You've got to be kidding me," I grumble, aggressively pumping out soap from the dispenser.

She tosses her large, looping curls over her shoulder and shrugs. "I call them as I see them. And you two have spent the entire night leaning towards each other like… restrained magnets." She hesitates briefly, edging closer to me. "You know I won't tell Archie, right? Girl talk is girl talk."

"Jughead and I were friends as kids. Of course we're comfortable around each other. We have the same taste in movies and podcasts, and we have fun together. Nothing else to say."

"Fun, huh? The naked kind?"

"Veronica!" I rinse my hands aggressively, shaking off droplets of water over the skin.

"He makes you smile more than your collective string of exes combined! Why wouldn't you see if he's superior between the sheets, too?"

_Because this is business! _I mouth angrily at my friend.

Her skeptical look confirms I'm not fooling her with my indignant protest. I thrust my hands beneath the automatic dryer, drowning out her continued queries regarding the hypothetical sexual prowess of Jughead Jones—and falling backwards through time into memories I'm desperately avoiding.

_Cheryl's at it again, with her favourite attack dogs, Ginger and Midge in tow. It's been a week of snide remarks about my clothes, shoulder checks into locker doors and notes passed around the class that I just know are about me. And now, while our gym teacher is completely distracted by a phone call from his soon-to-be ex-wife, they've blocked my path on the track, halting my practice for the district track meet on Saturday._

"_Hello, Betty," Cheryl purrs. "What are you doing?"_

"_Running." _

"_From what, your hideous sweater set? We'd all like to run from that."_

_Ginger and Midge snicker on command and I roll my eyes. Like I care about the clothes my mother makes me wear. It's a reflection on her tastes more than mine._

"_You know Cheryl, if you ran more, maybe you wouldn't be verging on cankles," I spit out, pushing past her. _

_As soon as it's out of my mouth, I regret it (even if she does have a little more ankle than her skinny legs can balance out). Cheryl's arm snaps out, grabbing mine and pulling so roughly, I swear my shoulder nearly dislocates. _

"_You little bitch, let me tell you something about running," she sneers. "Your daddy is running around behind your mother's back, screwing anything that shows his pitiful ass some affection. And your mother dearest is a slithering, slimy—"_

"_Enough!" a voice bellows from beneath the nearby bleachers._

_Mutual surprise has silenced our argument, all of us watching as Jughead Jones emerges from the shadows beneath the metal seats. His faded blue plaid shirt is open and wrinkled, the grey tee beneath marked with a large 'S'. His crown beanie—something he never seems to be without—sits crooked upon his messy hair. He steps between us, walking Cheryl backwards three steps with an unsettling stare._

"_I could tell everyone some things about your family, Cheryl. Things I don't think you want me to make public knowledge. So why don't you go back to your hopeless pursuit of Reggie Mantle and leave Betty alone?"_

_Cheryl's blood-red lips part as if to protest, and Jughead leans closer, whispering something in her ear. The reaction is immediate: she blanches and spins on her heel, storming away in a huff. I watch the trio retreat in a baffled but bemused state._

"_Thanks, Jug."_

_He shrugs off my gratitude and glances at his watch. "Mr. Nowell is not coming back for these last ten minutes. You could call it a day."_

"_And have Cheryl shove my clothes in the toilet again while I shower? It's fine, I'll just run a few more laps and wait for her to head home."_

"_You already have the fastest time by ten seconds in the 500 metre, Betty. Relax."_

_How does he know that? I mean, it's true, but it's been ages since we've hung out, and I can't recall ever seeing him at anything extracurricular at school. I shrug casually, trying to keep myself from wondering if his knowledge of this is anything like how I know that he bites his lip when he's trying not to laugh in class, or that his secret blog is no secret to me (or rather, my alter ego, Helena Handbasket)_

"_You okay?"_

_I nod. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just tired of being her punching bag."_

_His hand is on my shoulder, squeezing it gently. "If you ever need back-up, you know where my loser hideout is," he quips._

_As I watch him retreat, I wonder what it would be like to be alone in the shadows with him. I wonder if he'd let me take that beanie off. Or what I'd let him remove in return…_

"Earth to Betty!"

"Sorry, just… worrying," I lie.

"I got you. Come on, let's go before the guys think we fell into the toilets or something."

_Or something_. Like a sinkhole of a memory that reminds me this little cover I invented is sweet torture.

* * *

**Jughead: 14 Days Ago**

I don't know how much longer I can keep up this charade.

Dinner was easy enough. Archie and Veronica are excellent buffers for any moments of deep conversation that might tempt my suppressed feelings to the surface. Being sober also helped, because I could focus on choosing my every word and phrase. Surgical precision with speech is a gift I rely heavily upon these days.

But here, in the intimate lighting of La Bonne Nuit, I am dying slowly. I am a thirsty man crawling across a desert, denying himself a waiting glass of water. Betty's body is swaying to the music, her hips rolling to punctuate shifts in melody and beat, and my fingers are twitching with the urge to touch her hips and pull her against me.

I'll have to say something eventually. Not now. Not while we have such a dangerous job to do. But when this is over, and she is safe from harm, I'm going to have to confess to this angel before me. The wondering is killing me slowly, more than anything else.

Because every once in a while, I get a weird prickling on the back of my neck, a sense that maybe this isn't entirely one-sided. Maybe. And I need to know if it's wishful thinking.

"Juggie, come dance with me!" she calls out from the tiny dance floor.

"No thanks, I'm good not humiliating myself over here," I reply with a smirk and a swig of my gin and tonic.

The music shifts to a song that was everywhere a few years ago, a synth-laced pop track that lyrically cuts a little too close to my needy bones. Betty and Veronica shriek, embracing each other and dancing in a circle. Archie settles in beside me, having put in his duty as a good boyfriend for three songs already,

"You can't leave her hanging out there, Jug. Boyfriend rules," Archie insists.

"I'm…" My voice trails off, remembering our public setting. "I'm a terrible dancer. Did you not see me at the Wyrm?"

"Like I'm any better. It's the thought that counts, trust me. A couple twirls, a dip, shuffle side to side. Ronnie does all the work." Archie chuckles as Betty's gaze fixes upon me. "You're in trouble."

Her flimsy purple dress swishes softly as she approaches, the _click_ of her heels upon the floor almost as loud as the thundering of my heart. Without warning, she's sitting on my lap and stealing my drink from the bar.

"Either you get out on this dance floor, or I'm going to dance here." She punctuates her ultimatum by downing half of my drink.

I swallow hard, begging my body not to react to Betty's thighs sprawled across mine. She leans in closer, her lips grazing my ear.

"One of Hiram's goons is here," she whispers.

My heart sinks, realizing her insistence has been driven purely out of professionalism and preservation. _As it should be, asshole! This is a story, a job!_ And yet, I can't resist a feather-light kiss to her pale neck.

"Alright, you win! Let's go."

Her hand reaches for mine, pulling me into the middle of the packed space. I follow her lead, my feet matching her step-shuffle-sways, although I leave the fancy arm work and hair tosses to my stunning companion. Instead, I'm marveling at how uncomfortably apt the lyrics of this song truly are.

"_Now we're going down, ah  
And I can feel the eyes are so watching us so closely, oh  
I'm trying not to make a sound  
'Cause I'll be found out somehow…"_

Betty throws her arms around my neck, her body pressed against mine as the familiar chorus hits. Remembering the prying eyes nearby, my hands slip to her hips, pulling her closer so I can whisper in her ear.

"Which guy?"

"Grey suit behind me, looks like an extra from The Godfather," she replies with a wink.

Ahh, there he is. He's definitely looking, although he's far more subtle than her tail the other night. Speaking of, I'm not taking any chances this time.

"Should we entertain him?" I murmur into her hair.

Betty's grip on my neck tightens as she pushes even closer. Her lips find mine this time, tentatively taking the lead. She strikes the match and I'm consumed in flames. I may be going to hell for muddying the lines here, but it's a price I'm willing to pay as she gently nips my lower lip.

I'm done for. I'd held back at the diner, but I'm helpless to resist her now. My white flag is hoisted high as I surrender to my instincts and kiss her like I've always wanted to. I kiss her like I'm trying to give her the last breath within my lungs. And to my surprise, she returns the favour, our tongues tangling in a fevered need until we're left frozen on the floor, gasping and gobsmacked.

"_Into the fire, feeling higher than the truth  
(But now I'm falling)  
I can feel the heat, but I'm not burning  
(I'm falling)…"_

Our observer remains in my periphery, but his interest in us has waned. A part of me is disappointed.

"We're good," I reassure her.

"And our friends are equally entertained," Betty mumbles, her cheeks flushed.

_Fuck_. Oh, I'm going to hear about this from Archie later. I just know it. We fall back into dancing, my awkwardness amplified by my jitters. Betty's brow furrows as she casts her gaze over me.

"You know I'm okay, right?"

"Hmm?"

The music shifts to a slow song and Betty moves closer, falling easily into a gentle sway with my trembling frame. It terrifies me, how easy this feels between us. Because it's not real. It's pretend, and in a couple of weeks, I have to give it back forever.

Betty's head leans against my shoulder as she speaks again. "I mean, I know we both agreed PDA is kinda overdone but… But I don't mind PDA if the mood's right."

I hold her tightly, afraid to drown in those sea-green orbs of hers and spill my secrets as I sink. _If the mood's right? What does that even mean? It can't… _

"Okay," I choke out, my throat suddenly parched. "I just… I don't want to ever make you unhappy, or uncomfortable."

"Oh! Oh, no. No, Juggie, I'm fine. I've known you for so long, I guess being comfortable… It's easy?"

_Stupid, Jughead_. That's the weird _maybe_ I've been sensing: childhood friendship. Of course she's okay with kissing me. She's known me for ages, even if we have drifted since I moved to Toledo. She's trusting me and I'm abusing that trust to satisfy a _what if_ that's haunted me for over a decade.

"Same here," I tell her.

It's only half a lie. It could be worse. _Work, Jughead. The story_. A thought crosses my mind, and I lean in to kiss her cheek.

"I want to ask Pop a few questions. Can you keep an eye on our friend?"

"On it." Louder, she calls out, "V! Arch! Shots!"

I excuse myself to the washroom, which is adjacent to the small staircase up to the Pop's part of the establishment. Relieving myself in a hurry, I hustle upstairs, fanning myself with a hand for show.

"It gets warm down there!" I remark to Pop Tate.

Pop swipes at the front counter with a damp cloth and smiles. "I hear that's what happens when you take advantage of Miss Lodge's Friday specials."

"Touche', Pop."

I laugh softly, taking a seat at the counter and casually scoping the diner. Aside from a few of the Riverdale Vixens sipping shakes in a far corner, the place is empty. Perfect for a gentle inquisition.

"So, how does it feel being home?" Pop asks me, pouring me a cup of coffee out of habit, I assume.

A perfect opening, I run with it. "It's good, but it's strange. Even in a small town like Riverdale, so much can change. Like here, for instance. A speakeasy in the basement? Something I never expected to see."

Pop nods, sliding the coffee in my direction. "I didn't expect to see it brought back to life either, but Veronica's made it beautiful down there. She's easy to work with, even helps out with the diner on Mondays and Tuesdays if one of the staff calls out."

I lean closer, sipping my coffee. "Pop, what happened? This place has been in your family forever."

"This town happened," he replies bitterly. "The drugs, the gangs… and people looking for something to blame. Same thing happened to the Twilight, to half the businesses on the Southside. I'm just lucky mine hasn't been demolished yet."

"But selling, Pop? Couldn't you have gotten a loan? You know, like those ones where you take out mortgage equity?"

I take another swig of coffee, trying to keep it casual. Just two neighbours chatting about life. Thankfully, Pop seems eager to unburden himself.

"I tried, Jug, but they denied my mortgage renewal. Said the lower income of the business made it too high risk. I was going to have to take out a mortgage with one of those private companies that charge you twice the interest." Pop shakes his head sadly. "No way I was affording that, not with a rough year. That's when Hiram Lodge came in, offered me the deal. I still manage the place, but he owns it. Called up Mr. Kane himself."

"Mr. Kane?"

"The bank manager. Apparently his sister-in-law is married to his cousin. Got a good rate, quick closing."

A picture is forming, one that makes me more determined than ever before to nail Hiram's ass to the wall for what he's done to this town. No doubt his family connection influenced the denial of Pop's mortgage renewal.

"At least you're still here, making the best burgers in the world," I say, rising to my feet. "Thanks for the coffee, Pop. I should get back downstairs before they send a search party."

Pop moves around the counter and embraces me warmly. "You make sure to come see me again before you go, Jughead. I've missed having you around."

"It's a promise, Pop. See you soon."

As I head downstairs to my waiting friends, my mind is struggling with the _why_ of it all. Is it, as Veronica suggests, just a means of keeping tabs on the Riverdale population? Or is there something more to his shady takeover of the diner?

And if it's the latter, is there anything I can do to stop it?

* * *

**I'm on vacation next week, so I'll see you when I return! In the meantime, drop a line and let me know what you think about anything - Hiram's plans; Jughead and Betty being in denial; whether they'll make it through these three weeks before tearing their clothes off.**


	9. A garden left for ruin by a millionaire

**It's time for Jughead to dig into a few of Hiram's purchases. A shorter chapter, its significance is more than it may seem. You'll see...**

**Chapter title pulled from City With No Children by Arcade Fire**

* * *

" **A garden left for ruin by a millionaire, inside of a private prison"**

**Jughead: 13 Days Ago**

With Betty committed to a Girls' Day with Cheryl, Veronica, Polly and Toni, it's time for me to dig a little deeper into the skeezy dealings of Hiram Lodge—the footwork Betty sought out the Times' help with.

The financial documents she slipped me last night in the car have already proven invaluable: between the monthly payouts from the Blossoms that abruptly stopped after Jason's death, the lump sum they received from Hiram after the sale of their property, and the shell company transfers Betty has flagged, it's one hell of a web. I map it out in Photoshop, a sort of virtual case board, and the criss-crossing lines make it hard to see the key players beneath them.

_But what are you doing with these properties, Hiram? A drug lab doesn't need this much land, and the SoDale architectural drawings filed with the town don't even cross half of the acres you possess now._

This calls for some physical recon, I figure. A few photos, snapped under the guise of my stock images gig, should hopefully shed some light on things. It's a weekend, so provided there's no active construction, I should be able to stealthily cross into the forested property once held by the Blossoms. But first, breakfast, and a little more digging into good ol' Governor Dooley.

I toss two slices of bread into the toaster and run several basic open source searches on Dooley, throwing in a few keywords to thin the results down to articles of more substance. Like the phrase _financial ties_, for starters, which brings up a piece on Vox about the governor's alleged ties to members of an Italian syndicate. _Lovely_. I also find the garden-variety scandals as I munch on my toast: alleged kickbacks for development deals for the state government; donations from organizations with less than upstanding intentions; and a personal vacation expensed as a business trip. How the man's been re-elected three times is almost beyond me. _Almost_.

I PDF a few articles and upload them to my cloud drive with the Times, then clear my browser history to be sure. I'm taking zero chances with Hiram, particularly with Betty's life on the line. I can't afford to slip up, not when we've learned so much already.

Outside, the familiar rumble of my dad's truck approaches and pulls into the driveway. Closing my laptop, I busy myself washing my plate off. I've been dancing around this conversation for a while now, but my gut has been turning with nervous energy since learning of the incidents that drove the Twilight into foreclosure. I know Betty thinks all of the shenanigans are related to the gang dealing Fizzle Rocks, but I'm not sure she's right. For my sanity, never mind the story, I need to know if my father was involved.

The screen door swings open with a squeak and my father steps inside, dressed in an old t-shirt and oil-spattered jeans. "Hey Jug! Didn't know you'd be up already after crawling into bed at three."

"It was not by choice," I reply, waving my mug of coffee at him. "Gotta get some freelance stuff done today. Falling behind."

"Well, you've certainly been busy. I've barely seen you in the last week."

His eyes drift to his feet as he busies himself with the remaining coffee in the pot. My dad's right: we've grabbed dinner once this week, shared breakfast hurriedly before his work day with Andrews Construction, but nothing substantial.

"I'm sorry, Dad. Archie and Betty have been really excited to see me, and it's been a new plan every day. But tell you what: why don't you grab some steaks, some potatoes too, and we'll have a barbeque tonight? You and me, and whatever movie we can dig up on TV."

"I'd like that, Jug. Maybe see if the bakery has a cherry pie, too. A Jones feast!"

My dad settles in at the small kitchen table, sipping his coffee calmly. He's in a good mood now, having been promised something he's desperately craved for years—something I've craved, too. If there's any time to try and catch him with his defenses down, it's now.

"I was thinking that since deserted buildings are a big thing right now that I'd take a wander around town, snap a few photos at some of the places that have closed down. Arch was telling me about all the changes in town." I pause, reaching for my camera bag near the front door. "Like the Twilight. Man, that really pisses me off. I loved that place."

I fiddle with a telescopic lens, studying my father's reaction. To his credit, he's always had a decent poker face, but the tightening grip on his mug tells me everything.

"Remember when we used to sneak you and Jelly inside?" FP shakes his head. "You two would tuck into the trunk and make a game of who could be the quietest."

"And Jelly always won," I recall with a grin. "The Bijou's great, but the drive-in was special. They were telling me there were issues with fights or something? Isn't that just called Saturday night?"

"Lot has changed around here, Jug. People change. Guess the owners got tired of the changes."

Checking the battery on my camera, I frown. "Seems like a lot has changed. Or changed hands. Hell, the Twilight went so cheap, I could have qualified for a loan to buy it. That's a lot of drug dealing and fighting to drive the property values down so low—"

"Jughead, you need to listen to me now." My father's voice is a guttural growl. "You have been gone a long time, boy. This town isn't what it was. And you need to leave these questions alone."

"But Dad—"

"NO!"

I rock back on my heels, instinctively wincing in anticipation. This is the FP Jones I grew up with. The one we fled when I was thirteen. The angry FP Jones, the one you sensed could end your life in a moment. The anger, however, quickly dissolves into something else entirely: fear.

"I _will not lose you_," he hisses, fittingly serpentine. "You listen to me, Jug. I know you. I know you're not just catching up on town gossip. I am begging you to leave this alone. For me."

I have my answer: my father knows much more than he's telling. But I lie to him, promise to keep my nose out of the town's seedier dealings. It's what we do for the people we love.

* * *

It's technically walking distance to Southside High, the first stop on my Lodge acquisitions tour, but I take the car anyway. My gear is heavy, and the passenger seat smells faintly of Betty's orange-vanilla perfume. I'm not denying how pathetic my pining is, but last night's kiss on the dance floor still has me reeling.

I miss her. We've seen each other every day since my return to Riverdale, even if just for a quick lunch break, and I've gotten used to her presence: her laugh; her goofy, quiet humor; and the way she twirls her hair around her finger when deep in thought. The way she smiles at me like there's no one she'd rather be talking to.

_You've got it bad, Jones. So bad._ There's only one thing to do: stay busy.

I pull into the parking lot of what could have been my high school and stare sadly at the boarded up building and the smashed front window. A fitting symbol of everything wrong with Riverdale. I grab my gear and step out onto the worn and cracked pavement, surveying the scene. The window is definitely a starting point for my photos today.

While yes, the stock photo gig is a cover, it's been chosen because I have done freelance photography in the past to bank tuition coin. I enjoy it almost as much as writing, and have even selected a photojournalism course for the fall. I adjust the settings on my camera, taking several test shots before settling on the best combination, and snap several photos of the former school's façade.

The filed SoDale documents don't include this property, nor do they include the Blossom land purchase. It's primarily confined to the Twilight land, which sits kitty-corner from the school. The school lies adjacent to the Blossom land, so this property must be earmarked for something else. But what?

I wander around the back of the school, taking several more shots of barred windows, graffiti-stained walls and crumbling brick. _What's the advantage of this land? What are its features?_ Despite being a school, it's somewhat sequestered from the rest of the Southside, I note. It's on the fringe. SoDale is a little more central to town, which makes its promise of shopping, movies and restaurants fitting.

_No one on the Southside will be able to afford to go there, though_.

I walk several feet towards the rear of the field, the border of this property and the Blossom land. I capture shots from a distance, frame the school as a foreboding structure looming over me. If SoDale is meant for another group of people, who would it be? Sure, some Northsiders might be swayed to cross the tracks, but they have plenty of amenities closer to home. Businesses need customers.

_A housing development?_ I scrutinize the school, considering this carefully. Maybe a condominium? One could certainly fit on this plot, but I vaguely recall a small condo above the retail space being a part of the public SoDale plans. A large swath of townhouses could easily cover this and the Blossom land, although the number of trees to be demolished would require special approvals.

_Is that why Hiram's pulling Dooley's strings?_

Given the school's abandonment, I decided that a stroll into the forest nearby shouldn't draw any attention. Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I trek into the woods, headed for a tiny footbridge across a stream that should serve as a good spot for photos.

My mind drifts to Betty again, much to my dismay. While I'd suggested we cozy up last night for the sake of prying eyes, our second kiss went far beyond the bare minimum to sell a fake relationship. I felt guilty for it in spite of her reassurances that everything was fine between us. She trusted me as a friend. I knew I'd been unnecessarily enthusiastic, had allowed myself to be carried away in the moment by my messy feelings. Even Archie had pulled me aside later in the evening to ask what our _dance floor makeout_ was about. I'd explained about our company and that Betty and I had previously discussed it, but he was clearly as skeptical as I was about it.

_I need to apologize this time, _I decide as I reach the small wooden bridge. _I'll blame… _ Fuck. What do I blame? Her appearance? That's sexist and creepy. Booze? Meh, I'd only had a couple drinks all night since I was driving. I was hardly about to confess an old teenage crush, and now was not the time to admit that the last week had morphed it into very current, very real affection.

_Aha!_ _I'll blame Veronica and Archie_. I pull my camera from my bag, snapping a few shots of the moving water. _Their little car session was at least that intense. I took them as a cue for how a couple should be kissing_. It was dodgy, but believable enough. I snap another photo of the stream, focusing on the stony bed. _But I have to be better about this. I have to treat her with respect_.

I cross the bridge and follow the stream, snapping photos of the greenery as my racing mind slows down. Sweetwater River is ultimately what feeds this delicate trickle of water that cuts through much of the Southside, which explains the Blossoms holding the land. In earlier days, the river was essential for the maple syrup trade the family built their fortune upon. As I photograph the river through the lush trees, it occurs to me that the Blossom Maple Farm is roughly just across the river from this newly acquired Lodge property.

_What were the payments to Hiram for? Why did they stop with Jason's death? And why would they let Hiram take valuable land for a song?_

"Maybe they still have access to the land. Or maybe whatever he's planning for this land benefits the Blossoms, somehow…"

Saying it aloud, it rings true. Clearly, the two families have been tied for years, a tie that perhaps Jason threatened to expose and was silenced over. Maybe Mira can help dig up more dirt on the two families with the Times' databases and access.

Satisfied I have at least a rough understanding of this piece of the puzzle, I pack up and trek back towards the high school. I'll drop by the former Twilight, see if anything about the construction site stands out, but the key has to be the Blossom-Lodge connection. It has to be there.

As I approach my car, I grimace at the police car boxing my Jetta in. Its cherries spin soundlessly as an imposing figure writes down my licence plate. _Crap_. Holding my head high, I keep my pace steady, picking it up just a little.

"This your car?" the officer calls out.

"Yeah, it is. Did someone clip me and drive off?" _Play stupid, Jughead._ "Damn thing already cost me too much money with an engine repair a few months ago."

I've reached the trunk now, which appears to still be locked, thankfully. I have a hidden compartment in there where I stash physical documents and evidence for the story where the originals serve me best. Face to face with Riverdale's finest, I realize from the badge and suspicious gaze that this must be Sheriff Minetta. The very Sheriff deep in Hiram's pockets, if Betty's theory holds.

"No, but you are parked on private property without authorization from the owner."

His voice is stern, like a disappointed parent. I resist the urge to be offended, telling myself that it means he sees me as a stupid child, not a threat to his secret boss.

"Oh, I'm sorry about that, officer…"

"Sheriff Minetta," he corrects me, pointing his pen at my plate. "Illinois, huh? Long way from home."

"Actually, I grew up in Riverdale, so I'm home now," I explain, loading my gear into the backseat. "Went to school near Chicago."

Minetta notes the bag, tilting his head slightly. "You mind telling me what you were doing on this property today, Mister…"

"Jones. Sorry, how rude of me." I extend my hand, which he reluctantly shakes. "Jughead Jones. I was working, actually. I'm a photojournalist and I figured I'd go with the trend and shoot some pictures of closed down buildings for my employer. We do stock photos. Nothing glamorous, but it pays for this hunk of steel," I joke, patting the roof.

"I see. Well, despite the formerly public nature of the premises, the school was condemned as a hazard. We're waiting on fencing, but we do need people to stay away from the structure."

_Sure, Minetta. You mean nosy people, like me._

"Totally understood. I got enough to take care of this week's quota, so you have nothing to worry about. I'll steer clear for the rest of my visit." My hand reaches for the driver's door handle and Minetta steps aside.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Jones. Enjoy your Saturday."

I turn over the engine and fiddle with the stereo, waiting for Minetta to get out of my way. He takes his time, adjusting his mirrors and glaring in my direction before finally pulling out of the driveway and heading south. My phone chimes in my pocket and I check the screen, smiling when I see Betty has texted me.

_Hey Juggie, I totally forgot! I have a work function tomorrow afternoon for SoDale. Free food and champagne. You wanna be my plus one? It's at Lodge Industries HQ at 1.  
_  
I reply quickly in the affirmative, tapping the steering wheel. _Access to Hiram's offices? SoDale investors hanging about?_ The timing couldn't be better.

Deciding the Twilight's out for today with Minetta lurking about, I head for the bridge to the Northside. With any luck, Archie's free for a few rounds of Call of Duty and pizza—and Fred Andrews is around to talk shop about SoDale.

* * *

**Poor Jughead. If only he knew what Betty was thinking!**

**Speaking of Betty, she's back with us in the next chapter, which is my absolute favourite of the story so far (and I suspect you will love it too)! See you soon, dear readers. Reviews feed the writer and get chapters finished faster, please feed me!**


	10. These are the games of the weekend

**This chapter is my favourite one so far, and I suspect you'll agree with me. Our sleuths team up to dig up more dirt on Hiram and in the process, sparks definitely fly. Enjoy!**

**Chapter title taken from Sober by Lorde**

* * *

"**These are the games of the weekend…"**

_**"King and Queen of the weekend  
Ain't a pill that could touch our rush  
But what will we do when we're sober...**_

_**These are the games of the weekend  
We pretend that we just don't care  
**__**But we care (But what will we do when we're sober?)"**_

_**Sober - Lorde**_

**Betty: 12 Days Ago**

A light breeze has graced me and I hum happily as I smooth my dress over my hips. I spent a solid two hours tearing through my closet and Cheryl's in pursuit of a business brunch dress that said professional, but also, _I really wish my fake boyfriend would pin me against a wall, and take care of this endless tension between my thighs_. The winner: a white dress with a subtle red flower design, a sweetheart neckline and a slit that traverses the majority of my left thigh. As long as I stand up straight, the slit will lay flat, but if I bend my knee… Well, hopefully Jughead appreciates the view.

Speaking of, my companion is running ten minutes late, and it's taking everything in me not to call him.

My hand fidgets with tube of gloss as I survey the parking lot, searching for his car. Friday had been wonderful, in my books: great meal, drinks with friends, and a kiss so memorable, I can feel my cheeks flushing once more. The best date of my life, and it wasn't even real. Unless Veronica is giving her opinion, which she did several times yesterday.

"_Betty, wake up! He's so into you. And you're so obviously into him."_

_I nearly drop my drink in shock. "Wait, what? Obvious? Oh my god, V, he's going to think I'm so unprofessional! This is so embarrassing."_

"_So she finally admits she's lusting after our dear Truman!" Veronica laughs, sipping her margarita. "I'm pretty sure there was nothing professional about that makeout last night. I thought you were going to undress the poor man in the middle of the dance floor."_

"_No wonder he hasn't texted today," I conclude sadly. "I crossed a line, V. How do I apologize?"_

"_You don't. He stayed for three more hours after that. Don't you think he would have bailed if you'd made him uncomfortable? Well, I'm sure his pants were a little tight, but…"_

"_You are a pervert!"_

"_And you, Betty Cooper, have fallen for Mr. Jones. So make a move!"_

I go back and forth every hour, volleying between _there's something happening between us _and _you're a terrible person to take advantage of him, and being single for a year is hardly an excuse_. I'd like to think I can read him pretty well, but Jughead has always been a little evasive in the emotion department. I spent the first year I knew him thinking that he hated me for stealing Archie away. Turns out he thought that I was the one who didn't like _him_.

A tan pickup truck pulls into the driveway and I take a deep breath. _There he is_. His father's given him a lift, presumably because I told him it was an open bar. I took a cab over, myself. Between the proximity to Hiram and all of his shady friends, and my unhealthy lust for Jughead, I'm going to need a drink or two to steady my nerves.

I tuck the tiny tube of lip gloss into my bra as the truck draws near and smile in greeting. The truck door swings open and Jughead steps out, leaning in to kiss me on the cheek. His deep blue dress shirt and black slacks are fitted perfectly, and my heart flip-flops in excitement.

"Hey, Betts. You look amazing."

"Thanks, you too. Hey, Mr. Jones!"

The older man rolls his eyes at me. "I've told you a dozen times, Betty. Call me FP."

"It's habit, sorry. Any special plans today, FP?"

"Headed over to Fred's place to watch the game and order a pizza. Speaking of, I'll probably be home late, so you're on your own for dinner, Jug."

"Not a problem. That's what Pop's is for. Take it easy, dad."

We watch FP pull away, Jughead's hand resting lightly upon my bare arm. "I'm sorry I was late. Mira was helping me fix a tech problem."

Puzzled, I move to face him. "What sort of problem?"

"Nothing big, just some issues booting my editing software," he replies, tapping something into his cell phone. "Here, I'll show you the error I was getting. I sent her a screenshot."

He hands me his phone, revealing a text memo: _My cufflinks record sound. Delete this once you're finished reading it._ I tap the screen to delete it, shaking my head in feigned bewilderment.

"Yeah, that is weird! We use the same software at the Register, and I've never gotten that message before. Did she figure it out?"

"Yeah, thankfully my work is safe. Shall we go in?"

"Yes, absolutely. Veronica and Archie should already be inside; they were overseeing the set-up."

He loops his arm through mine and we make the walk up the steps into the main lobby of Lodge Industries. It's a low rise office space with three floors, but the courtyard in the rear is large and dotted with oak trees. We pass through a security check with ease—being Hiram's intern has its perks—and step outside. A thin canopy overhead is filtering the sunlight, keeping it comfortable without sunglasses. To our immediate left is a server with a tray of champagne, which we both snap up eagerly. I take a sip and immediately smile.

"Ahh, Cristal. Of course the Lodges have gone all-out."

"You can taste the difference?" Jughead asks.

"Taste for yourself." I glance to my right, spotting Archie near an _hors d'ouevres_ station. "This way."

As we walk, Jughead obliges me. "Oh damn. Yeah, I see what you mean. I'm normally not a fan of champagne, but that is nice."

"Hey, Arch! Where's V?"

Archie glances up, popping a samosa in his mouth with a wave. He gestures across the courtyard and I turn around, spotting my friend talking with her parents and a douchey looking guy I suspect is the infamous Nick St Clair.

Jughead plucks a cube of cheese from a tray and positions himself with a clear view of Hiram. "The man, the legend. Any advice, Archie?"

"Don't bullshit him. He'll see it coming a mile away."

Jughead smirks, knocking back half of his drink. "So omission over overt lies? Gotcha."

I've been dreading this meeting all morning. I've finessed my verbal evasions with Hiram over the years, but Jughead's never had to face the bastard down. The only reason I've had any success is Veronica's lifelong experience and—_oh_!

"We should go greet him now," I decide, tugging on Jughead's hand.

"Now? Why greet him at all?"

"Because he's my boss, and Veronica speaks fluent Hiram. Let her do as much of the talking as possible."

"Damn it," Jughead mutters beneath his breath.

As we approach the group, I study our unwitting prey: Hiram is dressed in a dark grey pinstripe suit, one he tends to wear on days where he has his most important meetings. _The power suit_. His wife Hermione is stunning in a strapless purple dress, her long black hair styled in large, looping curls. She has her hand upon Hiram's arm, squeezing just enough to mark her territory. Veronica is decked out as usual in a stunning orange dress with a black floral pattern, her long hair pinned up in a French twist. The way she's angling herself away from the mystery man tells me all I need to know: it has to be St Clair.

"Betty! You're here!" Veronica calls out, breaking away from the group. "And you've brought company."

Veronica embraces a surprised Jughead, whispering something in his ear. "You must meet my parents, Jug. Come."

We step closer, the circle expanding to accommodate our arrival. Hermione nods at me, the most I can expect from her, given her feud with my mother. Hiram, however, is quick to place a hand upon my shoulder.

"Glad you were able to make it, Betty. And who is this? I could have sworn I knew everyone in Riverdale by now."

The comment is innocent enough on paper. His tone is friendly, even. But I know much better. Veronica immediately jumps in, as I'd hoped she would.

"Daddy, this wonderful, funny guy is the happiest surprise of the summer! I'd like you to meet Jughead Jones, long lost BFF of my Archiekins."

"Jones? As in FP and Gladys?" Hiram queries.

"Yes, sir. I moved away to Ohio with my mother years ago. This is the first chance I've had to make it back for a proper visit, and when I saw on Facebook that Archie was also coming home, I jumped in the car and made the trip."

Jughead extends his hand and Hiram shakes it, a little too firmly for my liking. Jughead takes it in stride, knowing it's an alpha move.

"I've been telling Juggie about how amazing SoDale will be when it's complete, so I invited him along to see the new models you're unveiling today," I add, flashing the patented Cooper smile of innocence.

"How rude of me!" Veronica exclaims, gesturing to Douchey Guy on my left. "Betty, Jug, this is Nick St Clair, a longtime friend of our family. Nick and I practically grew up together."

I do love being right. Nick nods to Jughead and immediately fixates on me. His black suit is tailored and screams _Look at me, I'm so rich_. Yuck.

"Betty Cooper, it's so nice to finally meet you. Veronica has told me so much."

_Sure she has, Nicky_. "Thank you. I'm sure very little of it was true. V's prone to overselling me."

"I'd dare say she undersold," Nick counters, his eyes drifting uncomfortably to my cleavage.

"Betty has always had trouble seeing herself clearly," Jughead interjects, sliding his arm around my waist. "But I'm working on that."

I lean into him, planting a kiss on his cheek. "Charmer as always, Mr. Jones."

Veronica excuses our trio, noting that Archie's flying solo in a sea of business investors he's never met, and we make our escape. Jughead's arm remains firmly wrapped around me and I fight to restrain my glee.

_Look, Betty, if you're going to pretend to date anyway, why not enjoy it? Pretend it's real. Be happy._

I have to concur with my inner devil, who sounds suspiciously like Cheryl. I'm just going to go with this, let it be whatever it will be. Even if it's fake and one-sided, it's still more enjoyable than another lousy lay off Tinder.

"You did alright," I whisper in his ear.

"Nah, he's suspicious as hell. I'm guessing Minetta talked to him yesterday."

"Minetta? Why would he do that?"

"Ran into him at the school. Don't think he fully bought my excuses, but we'll see." As our foursome reunites in the farthest corner of the courtyard, he turns to Veronica. "Advice?"

"Avoid speaking to him, but stay in his line of sight. Ignore him. I'll watch him; your sole focus should be us or Betty."

_Veronica, you are not as clever as you think you are! _My bestie is too persistent for her own damn good.

"I agree," Archie chimes in. "You're here to hang out with us on Hiram's dime. No wandering off, no asking investors questions. Leave it to Ronnie."

Downing the rest of his champagne, Jughead kisses my forehead. "Act like I'm a cool guy, obsess over Betty. On it. You want another, Betts?"

I follow his lead, emptying my own glass. "Yes, please."

As he steps away to grab us refills, Veronica smirks at me. Archie, on the other hand, is difficult to read.

"You're welcome," Veronica whispers.

"V, you need to drop it, seriously. Let us just… be us, alright?"

"Whatever you say, B! Archie, I love this song. Shall we?"

Archie and Veronica step away, Archie twirling her playfully as they begin to dance. A closer look reveals they're quietly singing along to the buoyant pop track, nudging each other over what must be a shared joke. Jughead is quick to return, two champagnes in tow.

"So…" I sip my champagne, buying myself time to choose my words carefully. "You remember what I said Friday night?"

_You know, how I basically invited you to ditch our no PDA rule and have your way with me?_

Jughead takes a swig from his glass, nodding slightly. "I do. We're lifting our mutual embargo?"

"Might as well show the old folks how it's done," I quip quietly. "I mean, why hide what you're feeling?"

I'm in character now: Betty the girlfriend. I'm also mindful of the unknown people hovering near us when I speak. Jughead's surprised face clues me in that what I've just said can be taken as undercover casual or an admission of the very real affection I have for him. My cheeks flush as I down my drink quickly in embarrassment.

Jughead takes my empty glass, setting it with his on a nearby table. His left hand slips around my neck, pulling me in for a soft kiss.

"You're right, Betts. Let them look. They might even learn a thing or two. Dance?"

"Yeah, why not? We can blame our lack of coordination on the Cristal."

And like that, the awkward moment is history. Jughead pulls me onto the small floor, where we find ourselves challenging Archie and Veronica to a tango competition, despite the fact only Veronica seems to actually know how to tango. Frustrated with Archie's two left feet, Veronica pulls me to her side and declares me her new partner. A part of me senses the sensual dance she's pulled me into is a silent middle finger to her father, who's never seemed comfortable around Cheryl since she came out as a lesbian.

The next two hours are a blur of dancing, drinks and speeches, including one from Nick's father, endorsing the SoDale project as _revolutionary_ (I gag on the smugness). We soak up the alcohol in puffed pastries and cheesecake bites, pushing aside the threat looming over us daily to relax as a foursome. Jughead and I retreat eventually to a corner of the courtyard, where he stands behind me, arms wrapped loosely around my waist and his chin resting upon my shoulder. His lips graze my neck, sending a shiver down my spine.

"Is it wrong that I want a burger and a shake right now?" he murmurs.

"Oh my god, no! That sounds amazing. Or cheese fries. Yes, cheese fries and a shake." I pop another mini éclair in my mouth, humming happily. "I'm drunk. Or half-drunk."

"If you're asking, you're drunk," Jughead teases me, his thumb brushing the corner of my lips. "You're messy."

"Must be why I've been single so much," I muse. "Messy, bossy, too smart, too plain—"

"Hey, stop bashing my date," Jughead interrupts, turning me to face him. "I happen to think she's beautiful. And smart is sexy."

Maybe it's the light fragrance of orchids scenting the air. Maybe it's the almost angelic glow the sun is casting over Jughead's features, or the way his blue eyes cut right through me. Maybe it's how good it feels to be called his girlfriend, even if it's a cover story. Whatever it is, it moves me to kiss him hard, my hands cradling his face.

_Do you know badly I actually want to be with you? Can you feel it, Jug?_

He meets me halfway, equally intense as his hands grip my hips and pull me closer. His tongue meets mine in a sensual dance, flicking and teasing it further into his mouth. He tastes of champagne and chocolate, and I want to leave now, take him home and show him how bossy I can be in a bed.

Someone clears their throat nearby and we break apart, giggling between mumbled apologies. I throw my arms around his neck and hug him tightly, resting my burning cheeks against his shoulder.

"We showed them," his whispers.

I laugh loudly, stifling the sound against his shirt. "Must be hard to watch a couple college kids get more action than you've had in a year."

"As content as I am to continue to educate our elders, Hiram and Papa St Clair have just ducked into the building," he informs me in a hushed tone. "Thoughts?"

"I should show you the formal model of SoDale. The private one in the offices," I clarify.

"Follow my lead," he replies softly, twirling me in a circle. In a louder voice, he continues, "You promised to show it to me!"

I catch on, smirking at him. "Well… _maybe_ we can go look. Let's see!"

I loop my arm through his to steady myself as we cross the courtyard towards the rear entrance of Lodge Industries. The security guard posted at the door halts me as I try to head for the elevator bank.

"Upstairs is off limit to guests today," he informs us.

"Oh! I know that. I'm Mr. Lodge's intern," I explain, smiling sweetly. "I have an important report to finish for tomorrow and I left my USB upstairs in my desk. I have my card, so you don't even need to worry about swiping me up."

I pull the card from my bra, flashing the photo side of the badge so he can verify my identity. After a moment's hesitation, he steps aside. I thank him for his diligence and lead Jughead to the elevator bank.

"Hiram's office is on the third floor. I assume they've gone there." I swipe the reader and hit 2, leaning into Jughead. "If he catches us, the model is our excuse. It's in the main lobby of the second floor. My office is on the third, if he catches us there. We're taking the stairs up to three. It's quieter."

"Gotcha." Jughead fiddles with the cuffs of his shirt, presumably doing something to trigger the secret recording devices there.

The elevator door opens with a soft _ding_ and we step onto the second floor, surveying the scene. I hear no signs of activity, but we keep our movements quiet. Jughead pauses at the elaborate model of SoDale, snapping a few pictures of the display.

"There. If he spots us upstairs, we have a little supporting evidence."

I kick off my heels as we slip into the stairwell, slowly ascending to the third floor. We'll end up in a hallway furthest from Hiram's office, which will hopefully let us go unnoticed. I gesture for Jughead to open the door and step into the corridor, confirming all is clear.

"We're good," I whisper, slipping my shoes on.

We make our way down the hall and turn left, arriving in the reception foyer. I gesture to my office as we pass it, listening for signs of movement on the floor. Hiram's office door is ajar, I notice, and as we draw near, voices can just be heard.

"… we can't have interruptions in the supply chain, Xander," I hear Hiram say.

"There won't be, going forward," Nick's dad replies angrily. "Although the delays with this project are hindering our own operation."

Jughead edges closer, extending his arm towards the door. I take a half-step back to make space.

"If you want me to keep a steady supply, I need to establish and _conceal_ the infrastructure," Hiram snaps. "Otherwise, you're not getting your shipments at all. I'll save them for my personal enterprise."

"Then we'll take our financing elsewhere," Xander St Clair threatens.

We hear a footstep within the office, then another—approaching us. We each take a step backwards, exchanging worried looks. The steps halt as Hiram calls out to Xander.

"Oh, and you're going to do your own laundry? Take it elsewhere? Keep telling yourself you have a better option," Hiram snaps.

"Don't you even think of threatening me, Hiram. I know which closets hold your most precious skeletons."

I tap Jughead's shoulder. _We need to bail_, I mouth. He nods in agreement and we turn around, taking careful steps down the corridor, headed for the stairwell on the far side. We're only just at the reception area when a loud bang carries down the hall, followed by Hiram and St Clair shouting in Spanish—and the sound of hurried, angry footsteps behind us.

"We need to hide!" Jughead hisses.

"My office!" I pull him across the hall, tapping my card against the reader. "In!"

We stumble inside the modest office, sparsely decorated with a computer desk, chair, a small bookcase and a seat for visitors. In my haste to pull Jughead to safety, I have forgotten one critical thing: my door has a tendency to slam shut if you don't hold it. My hand flies out and misses, the resulting _thud_ louder than my panicked heartbeat in my ears.

There's no way the two arguing men didn't hear us. We're caught.

"Do you trust me?" Jughead asks frantically.

"Yes! Jug, the door—"

"I have an idea!"

He pushes me against my desk, his hands hoisting me up onto the sturdy oak. He presses himself between my knees with a sheepish look.

"If we look too busy to notice their argument…?"

"I can look busy," I mumble, pulling him on top of me.

Our mouths meet, teasing tongues and messy, deep kisses as my hands busy themselves with loosening his tie. Jughead's fingers are drifting along my sides, just shy of my breasts and I moan against his soft lips. My ankles hook together behind his waist, holding him tight against me as we kiss as if our lives depend on it.

They do depend on it, but as I notice his erection pressing into my thigh, I decide I'm happy to die if this is how I'm going out.

In the back of my brain, I hear footsteps in the hallway, searching for us. On this desk, I am Jughead's willing prey. My head falls back, offering my neck to him and his mouth closes over my jugular, sucking hard enough to mark me. _Fuck, that's hot_. My right hand slides between us, tugging his shirt from his slacks and running over his lean, muscled chest. _Perfect_. He's just perfect, and his perfect hand is matching me now, cupping my breast with a gentle squeeze.

My free hand fists in his hair, pulling his mouth from its mission to claim every inch of my neck. My heels are digging into his back as I gently pull his lower lip with my teeth. His eyes are dark, stormy seas I would happily drown in, and almost do—until a loud knock on the office door sends us scrambling.

"Betty? Is that you?"

I should be terrified. I should be looking for a weapon. Instead, I find myself giggling, pulling Jughead in for one last, soft kiss.

A soft beep signals the read of an access card and I scramble to adjust my dress to a dignified state. Jughead, ever the gentleman, stands in front of me, his hair sticking up awkwardly as Hiram Lodge enters the room with a stern expression.

"What are you doing in here?"

I smooth over my hair, feeling my cheeks flush. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Lodge. I… think we've had a bit too much champagne."

Jughead snorts, bursting out laughing. "A bit? Betts, you drank a whole bottle, easy!"

"I did not!"

He stagger-steps closer to me, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. "Look, this is my fault. I suggested we come here for a little privacy. Betty didn't want to leave early and it _seemed _like a great compromise." Giggling, he shrugged. "But champagne compromises are probably not smart ones."

Hiram studies us carefully, clearing his throat as he glances at me. My eyes dart down, noticing the slit on my dress is no longer laying professionally flat. I quickly fix it, hiding behind Jughead.

"I was a young man, once. I get it. But perhaps you should take this to a more appropriate venue? Andre will call you a cab downstairs."

"A cab sounds like a _very _smart decision. Very smart." Jughead taps my nose lightly with his fingertip. "Smart like _you_."

I burst out laughing, leaning against his arm. "Thank you, Mr. Lodge. Again, I'm really sorry."

I fake a stumble on my way out, laughing quietly as Jughead leads us to the elevators. Hiram brings up the rear, pressing the call button and keeping a distance between us. I lean in to kiss Jughead's cheek, burrowing against him and inhaling his faint cologne: pine and something almost salty, like the lake in the next town.

The elevator ride down feels like forever, but Hiram quickly flags Andre and disappears into the throng of party goers. We sink into the soft sofa in the main floor reception space, waiting just a few minutes for our transportation. My fingers comb Jughead's hair into something respectable as he fiddles with his cufflinks.

_Oh my god, it would have recorded that… distraction_.

Pushing that aside for now, I lean into him, resting my eyes. I played it up for Hiram, but I am definitely across the line from buzzed to drunk, and there's nothing more appealing than greasy food and my PJs. I'm pretty sure Jughead was exaggerating upstairs too, but he's far from sober.

"There's our cab," he murmurs, nudging me.

"Can we get food, Juggie?"

"Pop's to go?"

"What else?"

We pour ourselves into the cab, notifying him we need to make an extra stop at the diner. I call in the order, amused by the concerned tone in Pop's voice. I text Veronica, letting her know we've left for the night, and ignore her emoji-laden reply involving eggplants.

Jughead offers to fetch the food and I lean against the cab door, willing my head to stop spinning. I just need food. Or more of Jughead's body pressed against me. Both? When he returns, I tell the driver to head to Thistlehouse.

"Just come to my place," I tell him, sipping my strawberry shake. "This is so good right now."

We ride in silence, slurping our shakes and staring out our respective windows. Anxiety gnaws at the pit of my stomach, wondering if I'd gone too far in the office. Okay, not wondering—knowing damn well I had. We just needed to _look _indecent. Handsy behaviour was so unnecessary.

_We're both drunk and we got carried away. That's it._

I'm lying to myself. I know it and I don't care. It's self-preservation. Just like me inviting Jughead to my home, which was a choice made out of more than lust. I know damn well Hiram will check on our destination. If we don't end up at the same place, it will be suspicious.

I pay the cab on our arrival, tipping generously. I want the driver to remember us. I want him to remember me hanging off Jughead as we stumble up the driveway. I want him to remember how I yanked him inside with a smile. Jughead nearly drops the bag of food, but manages to hang on as I kick the door shut.

"Hiram will call him," I explain.

"Good thinking." Jughead waves the bag of food at me, nodding his head towards the kitchen. "I need this burger more than any other burger ever eaten."

I step out of my heels and follow him to the table, where my cheese fries await. Gooey, heavenly carbs. The better to soak up booze with. We make quick work of our snacks, skipping chatter except to exchange bites of our treasures. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the clock and am surprised it's scarcely five. I could fall asleep right now.

I rise to get a glass of water, pausing when I hear my name called out.

"Betts?"

"Hmm?"

"I… This is hard," Jughead mutters.

"That's what she said," I blurt out stupidly, relieved when Jughead laughs heartily.

"Seriously, though," he continues, "I owe you an apology."

I turn around, leaning against the kitchen counter. "For what?"

Jughead slumps down in his chair, avoiding my gaze. "I was completely out of line in your office. I've had way more to drink than usual and—"

"Wait, I don't understand," I cut him off. "I went along with your idea. It was a smart one."

"The idea… fine. But I got carried away in the moment, and it's not the first time," he continues reluctantly. "I just… I really don't date a lot, and Veronica and Archie's little car session has me confused as to what is and is not normal for the sake of… this. In any case, I apologize if I've made you uncomfortable in any way. I never want to hurt you."

_Oh, the irony. You're hurting me now_. All of the _maybes_ and _does he feel this too_ are dispelled. He doesn't feel the same. _Stupid Betty, he even told you how inexperienced he was!_

"You have nothing to apologize for. Nothing at all. Do I seem bothered? Upset?"

"A little…"

"Well, I'm not!" I insist, wincing at my harsh tone. "I'm not," I repeat, softening my voice. "I'm completely comfortable with what happened today. It was the best way out of a dangerous situation and that's what we agreed to do."

I turn away, desperate now for that water. My mouth is sandy and my hands are shaking as I turn on the tap. I fill a glass and drain half of it, pressing the cool surface to my forehead. I'm never drinking champagne again.

"Betty? You don't have to pretend to be okay."

_He's calling me Betty now. No more Betts_. I leave the glass in the sink, screwing on my practiced smile to face the man who's now standing behind me.

"Jughead, I'm fine. I promise you. I won't be tomorrow when the hangover hits, but for now? I'm fine."

"It's just… I shouldn't have touched you where I did. We never discussed that—"

"Oh, like I touched your chest?" I counter, smirking. "Technically, I started it. I owe you the apology. I'm sorry, Juggie."

"You don't need to apologize for that," he insists.

What happens next is a series of events that my future self will blame on the Cristal.

My hand reaches for his, impulsively pulling it to my heart. I press his palm over my left breast, fingers splayed out. Jughead inhales sharply, his jaw falling open.

"Look, I'm totally fine with it, okay? We've known each other forever. I trust my body with you. But if you're unsure or uncomfortable, then I propose a solution for future moments that call for a little theatre."

"Um, what do you suggest?"

My hands grab his shoulders, pulling him closer. "Practice," I murmur, capturing his mouth with mine on a mission to conquer him.

He hesitates briefly but quickly surrenders, his body pressing tight against me as the kiss deepens. I'm pinned against the kitchen counter, the edge jabbing my back, but I embrace the twinge of pain as his hands slide around me and squeeze my ass. My arms wrap around his neck, fingertips straining to tug and toy with his messy waves as I hitch my left leg up against his knee.

If this is all I can ever have, I'm going to enjoy as much as I can before I have to give him up.

We're frenzied now, teeth clicking against each other in our need for more, now, deeper. My hips buck towards him of their own volition and he groans into my mouth. Alarms are ringing in my skull, but I can't stop, not yet, not while his fingers are massaging my ass in a sinfully pleasurable way. He's cupping them low enough that a small slip and he would be where I am aching for him, but I restrain myself from that.

My lungs begin to ache and I reluctantly break off the kissing. My breaths are shuddering gasps mirroring his as I cling to him, keeping him close. We remain motionless, stunned and shivering in each other's arms. The moment reminds me of another time, years ago, one that stung as badly as Jughead's apology.

_You're only going to end up hurt again_, my brain hisses.

"See?" I manage to blurt out. "No big deal, right?"

"Practice," he murmurs. "Yeah, I see."

"Um, you can crash here tonight," I offer. "Guest room is top of the stairs, first door to the left. I… I need to lie down. The champagne—"

"Yeah, me too. Thanks."

I make my way up the stairs, taking deep breaths to settle myself down. If I can't keep control, I'm going to end up inviting him to my bed and ruining our friendship forever. That's a risk I just can't take. I enter my bedroom and close the door quickly, shame taking root in my stomach. I peel off my dress and step out of the rumpled garment, studying myself in the vanity mirror. My lips are beestung-swollen, my cheeks flushed, my hair messy. My fingers trace the small, dark hickey on my neck from our office encounter and I fight back tears. I've been branded, but am unwanted.

_Why doesn't he want me?_

I fall into bed in my bra and panties, makeup on, and close my eyes. I have to let this go. It's just a crush. A pathetic, juvenile crush, a relic of another time and place. There are more important matters at hand.

After the conversation we overheard today, it's clear: Riverdale is corrupted. I need to focus on this story and help us clean house, before we're too far gone.

* * *

**WHEW!**

**These two are such a mess, but as Betty as hinted, they have a history they're not exactly telling you about in full, dear readers. Any guesses on what could have happened to make these two so reluctant to admit their feelings for each other?**

**Please drop me a line and let me know what you think their history is and what is going to happen tomorrow, when they're sober?**** I'm having a bit of writer's block with the next chapter, and reviews always help. Sometimes, they trigger the best ideas!**


	11. But if we had to play one card

**So sorry for the delay, but I tweaked my outline and combined a few chapters to speed things up. It's the morning after the brunch aka the day Betty and Jughead went for it on a desk, on a kitchen counter... Will these two regret it in the morning? Will they repeat it? Let's find out!**

**Chapter title comes from Never Thought That This Would Happen - Arkells**

* * *

"**But if we had to play one card, could say we both blacked out…"**

_**"**_**_When you're praying for no strings,_**

**_Sometimes you get tied down._**

**_And I n_****_ever thought that this would happen._**

**_And you g_****_ot all weird after the weekend._**

**_Sometimes, y_****_ou make out with an old friend..."_**

_**Never Thought That This Would Happen - Arkells**_

**Betty: 11 Days Ago**

I curse as a beam of sunlight cuts through the slats of my blinds and jabs me in my aching eyes. Oh, I am most definitely paying for the copious Cristal consumption at that damn brunch yesterday. Thankfully, I've learned over the years to keep Tylenol and vitamin B12 in my side table drawer, a tried and true combo that will usually power me through a morning after.

I stretch and yawn, pushing myself up to a seated position and reaching for my water when it suddenly hits me: _why is the sun so bright_? It's a work day. I usually get up at dawn, which means…

"FUCK!"

A glance at my phone tells me I have 12% battery and exactly forty minutes to shower, dress and make the fifteen minute commute to Lodge Industries. Pawing inside the drawer, I knock back two Tylenol and two vitamins, plug in my phone and bolt for the shower. I'll have to skip washing my hair today, skip breakfast, too.

_Skip talking it out with Jughead._

I flip on the water, jumping in before the water's fully warmed up and squirming in the cold. After a nap, I'd woken up late last night and called Veronica for advice on the mess I'd made with Jughead. Veronica had been kind and mercifully non-judgmental, but had insisted I talk to him about _everything_.

"_Confession is good for the soul, B. It's the only thing I agree with from my mandatory church attendance as a little girl."_

I wasn't sure I could go that far—bare my soul and reveal just how much I cared about him, or how long I'd harboured those feelings—but I was willing to tell a half-truth and admit that maybe real sparks were starting to fly. Play down the intensity, see how he reacted. I couldn't keep pretending not to care about him.

I'd meant to wake up early, make him breakfast, have a long conversation to clear the air. Thanks to my screw-up, it would have to wait.

I quickly scrub my body and rinse off, stepping out of the shower in a personal record of four minutes. I brush my teeth in a hurry, slap on a light moisturizer and groan as I remember the hickey on my neck. It's too hot to wear clothing that will conceal it and I have to pin my dirty hair back. I'll have to make time for a quick cover-up. Thankfully, one of my former friends with benefits had a terrible habit of marking my neck, and I've got it down to a speedy science.

My hair is swept up into a loose French twist, stray tendrils teased down to frame my face. I slap on light makeup and hurry back to the bedroom, relieved that I still have seven minutes to dress and get out the door. _I can do this_, I pep talk myself as I throw open the closet, reaching for a blue sleeveless blouse with ruffles and a black wrap skirt. Light for the heat, classy for the office. I snatch a pendant necklace I can toss over my head as I rush downstairs for coffee and my go-to black heels, and I have just enough time to fill a travel mug and collide with Toni in the kitchen.

"Hey, Betty! You look stressed. Everything okay?"

"Slept through my alarm," I explain, setting the mug down beside my purse. "Damn it, my keycard is upstairs! Hey, Toni, can you give Jughead a lift home? He stayed over last night."

Toni grins, sipping on a mug of tea. "Oh he did, did he?"

"In the guest room! We were drunk! Can you?"

"Of course, Betty."

"Thank you. Damn it!"

I run upstairs, snatching my phone, card and charger off my dresser and heading back towards the stairs. I hesitate outside the guest room door, wondering if I should say goodbye to Jughead, but decide there's just not enough time to give him proper attention. The last thing I want is to make this disaster worse by giving him the impression I'm brushing him off.

I thank Toni again as I grab my coffee and purse and stumble out to my car. I turn the engine over and skip my usual warm up, pulling out with a squeal of tires and a scream of frustration. Twelve minutes. The drive should take ten, but my fifteen minute allotment is meant to allow for delays, security checks, elevator waits…

So damn close. Too close.

In my mind, I rehearse greeting Hiram. I must be contrite, sheepish about our behaviour. Swear off drinking at work functions. Profess being carried away by new love, perhaps. It will ring true, and keep Hiram off Jughead's scent—especially if Minetta raised an alarm the other day.

I make the drive in eight minutes, blowing a red light for the first time in my life in the process. I force myself to walk briskly, but calmly into the building, greeting the concierge as if all is according to plan. Hiram's secretary, Angelique, is at her desk when I reach the third floor, sorting through Friday's mail.

"Good morning, Angelique! Is Mr. Lodge here?"

"He's starting his morning off-site," Angelique replies. "He has a meeting at the SoDale site and then a meeting at the governor's office. Is there anything I can help you with?"

"Oh no, I just wanted to touch base on something we discussed yesterday, but it can wait," I reply smoothly. "I have the usual summary reports to take care of, but is there anything I can help you with?"

Angelique tosses her long black hair over her shoulder and nods enthusiastically. "Actually yes! I've got a mountain of things to do that seems to be growing by the minute and now Mr. Lodge wants an in-person follow-up with Mayor McCoy regarding the SoDale approvals from the town—"

"Well, I could do that for you!" I offer casually.

"Really, Betty? You wouldn't mind?"

I smile sweetly, sipping my coffee. "Well, you're so busy here, it makes no sense for you to lose time travelling to the mayor's office. Besides, I was thinking of stopping by the Register to see my mom for lunch, so I'll be just down the street."

"You're a lifesaver, Betty! I'll forward you the email so you know what's outstanding."

I swipe into my office, setting my purse down and taking a deep breath. Unbeknownst to Angelique, she's just saved my ass. Not only can I conveniently arrange my schedule to dodge Hiram all day, I can also get some face time with Sierra McCoy, whom I suspect Hiram's been blackmailing. It's perfect.

My desk is still a mess from yesterday and my skin flushes at the memory of hands touching, mouths tasting. Of the way he felt between my legs—how _right_ he felt against me. My fingertips brush against the concealed hickey, remembering Jughead's soft lips upon my skin, sucking greedily.

_Soon_, I promise myself. _I'll tell him the truth. I'll tell him everything, even about THAT night._

Straightening my monitor and keyboard, I settle into my chair and send Jughead a text message. I won't have him thinking I'm upset or ashamed of what happened between us. I can't drive him away now, not when it's becoming so perfectly clear that I need him in my life. I just hope he needs me, too.

* * *

**Jughead: 11 Days Ago**

I raise my camera, focusing on the rushing waters of Sweetwater River, and take several shots. The water is murky, like my mind. How pathetic fallacy of me. Shakespeare would be proud.

Photography normally settles me on a rough day, but I can't seem to steady myself. My mind keeps alternating between Betty's text message and the events of the day before, which I have now dubbed The Day I Fucked Up Everything Even Worse Than The Other Day I Fucked Up Everything. It's an unwieldy name, so I'm shortening it to C-Day, as in Cristal.

I settle down on the grass, laying back and staring at the clouds above. They're spun-sugar, gossamer-thin like my hold on sanity. I close my eyes, rewinding the day, searching for some scrap of hope I've missed.

I woke up around ten, immediately recognizing Betty would be long gone from Thistlehouse, leaving me no chance to talk things over. Deciding a prompt proverbial walk of shame was in order, I pulled on yesterday's clothes and headed downstairs. In the kitchen, I found a bemused Toni Topaz and a curious Cheryl Blossom eating bagels and exchanging loving pleasantries. A quick coffee and several evaded questions later, Toni honoured a promise to Betty to play chauffeur and dropped me at my dad's place. She thankfully asked no questions, and I volunteered nothing, save that champagne had been our poison.

Cheryl was itching for a fight, but held her tongue—for now. I fully expect an inquisition in the near future.

I showered, dressed and settled onto the couch, where I noticed a text message from Betty I'd somehow missed. Opening it, my stomach turned.

_Hey Jug, slept in, had to rush out. Toni will take you home for me. Can we meet up later maybe and talk somewhere quiet?_

Oh, we could talk, although I already knew what she had to say. I'd crashed in the guest room after dinner last night, but woken around ten. After using the bathroom, I'd had a moment of bravery—or perhaps I was still buzzed. I walked down the hallway in search of Betty's room, hoping to call her out, see if that shock of electricity between us in the kitchen had meant something to her, too. And I'd found her room, alright. She was awake and talking to someone in a worried tone. I couldn't make out much, and honestly wasn't trying to invade her privacy, but what did carry beyond the door quashed all notions of opening up.

"_This story, saving the town? That's my sole focus. I will do anything to make that happen. It's what drives me every second of the day, alright?"_

I had my answer, and I took it back to the admittedly luxurious guest bed, and fell back into a troubled sleep.

I read the text again, sending a casual reply. _Have work to do at Sweetwater River. Meet this afternoon?_

A minute passed, then my phone chimed. _Sounds perfect, Jug. See you later._

Perfect. _Sure, Betty._

I'd killed a few hours watching TV and reviewing articles on Hiram's previous real estate indiscretions—background research for the article, really. I expected that he was smart enough not to connect any dots to his new schemes. Growing restless around two, I'd packed my gear up and headed to the river to shoot a few photos and mull the untimely end of Jason Blossom… and here I was now, with two hundred shitty pictures and a knife in my heart.

I was so sure yesterday that Betty felt it, too. The moment we'd been standing in the courtyard, my arms wrapped around her, just watching the crowd mill about… There was a strange peace. An alignment on a deeper level. Her laughter, the way she'd tilted her head up and smiled at me… it had felt so real. So genuine.

_Well, on the bright side, Hiram had to have bought it. She fooled me, after all_.

Opening my eyes. I press up to a seated position and will myself to focus on the case. Jason Blossom had gone missing on July 4th the previous year. The last person to see him had been Cheryl, his twin sister, who'd said that Jason had gone to run a few errands before picking Polly up for a road trip. Unbeknownst to their families at the time, Polly was pregnant and the young couple intended to elope. Fate had other plans, cruel ones. Eleven days later, the bloated corpse of Jason Blossom was pulled from the river, found by a local fisherman. Cause of a death: a gunshot wound between the eyes.

Thanks to Betty's digging, I know that Jason had been dead for days. The coroner's report confirmed the body had been initially frozen before the river dumping. That is the part that catches my attention. Why would you need to hide the body? And where would you hide it that no one would think to look? Something tells me that delay is critical to cracking the case.

A shrill song overhead shatters my reverie. I turn my head, surprised to spy a black and white killdeer perched in a tree nearby. I raise my camera slowly, mindful that the shutter sounds are muted, and take several distant shots to preserve the encounter for my own satisfaction. The killdeer puffs his striped chest, shrieking louder as I manage to zoom in tight for a few more snaps before it takes swift flight.

Maybe the trip isn't a complete bust, after all.

"Juggie?"

I nearly drop my camera, grateful for the neck strap, at the sound of her voice. The knife in my heart twists deeper, serrated steel gnashing its teeth. I plaster on a casual smile as I turn to greet her.

"Oh hey, Betts!" I glance at my watch, noting the time. "You're earlier than I expected."

"Yeah, I left work with a headache," she replies quietly, fingers curled in air quotes. "There was an epidemic of them around the office, so I don't feel guilty. What are you working on?"

"I do some of my best thinking with a camera in hand," I explain. "Nothing in particular, just the river, mostly. Focusing on a shot helps my brain quiet down."

Betty settles on a large boulder near the river, legs stretched out in front of her, ankles loosely crossed. "I wish I knew how to quiet my brain down. Thing never shuts up."

There's a heaviness in her words, a bittersweet edge. It worries me. I face the river to her right, focusing on the far side.

"What does it say?"

"Nothing."

A lie. For as softly as she has spoken the word, the gravitas she has given it, the trembling in her voice—it is overwhelming her. It is _no thing_ that she wishes to face, but it remains, all the same.

"I remember it saying a lot of nothing to you when we were kids," I muse, snapping a few photos. "Has its story changed?"

I swing my camera to face her, my stomach sinking at her downturned gaze and deep frown. Betty shrugs, shaking her head sadly.

"I guess it's worse," she admits. "There's more for it to say. More for it to throw in my face constantly. Like yesterday."

I take a step backwards, instinctively fleeing what I know will be a rejection I cannot bear. My camera slips loose, tugging against my neck as I let it tumble from my fingertips.

"What about yesterday? I thought we talked about everything. Are you not okay?" Panic is taking over now, as my own mind races away with the thought that perhaps I not only mistook business for pleasure, but crossed a line of no return. "Betty, if I violated your trust in any way, you need to tell me. I can't live with that."

"No! No Jughead, you did absolutely nothing wrong."

She is on her feet now, stumbling in her haste and falling against me. Her palms slap against my chest to catch herself and my breath catches in my throat. She has a direct line to my every synapse, my entire body alight at the barest touch. I hate it and love it, need it and fear it all at once.

"I'm so sorry," she murmurs, pushing off of me. "I'm such a klutz. Can't even walk right."

"Whatever, I trip over my own feet at least once a day."

"Anyway, I didn't mean to make you worry. We're fine," Betty insists.

"Stop deflecting," I plead. "I can tell you're upset, so just talk to me, alright? I know we said things were good last night, but we were both pretty hammered. If you woke up and feel differently, please tell me."

_Tell me it's not just a story to you. Tell me you feel this._

"I'm not upset about you, Juggie. I don't regret anything we did yesterday, okay?" Her piercing eyes meet mine, unrelenting in their stare. "We're in this story together. You and me. I can't get through this without you, so please… Please don't give up on me. Please?"

"Why would I?"

"Because everyone does eventually." Her confession breaks her resolve and she glances away, hugging her arms to her chest. "And I know this is bad, Jug. I talked to Mayor McCoy today. I just casually mentioned the Twilight sale and the low cost, made up a story about my mom considering selling our house and worrying about the market prices and her face… I know she's wrapped up in this. This is too big for me, it's all so big, and when it comes down to it in my life, I'm never quite enough for anything. So why would I be enough to handle this?"

"You're enough for this." My hand cradles her chin, tilting her towards me. "Listen to me, Betty Cooper. Whatever is in your head, that's Alice talking. That's your dad. That's… some asshole. I don't know. I've known you for a long time, right?"

Betty nods reluctantly, her head scarcely moving.

"I know you. You're enough. You've always been enough. If anything…" I swallow hard, fighting back my own insecurities. "If anything, you're too much for Riverdale. And you're going to prove that, with me."

"Jug, I don't…"

"I do. And, deep down, you do, too." Glancing behind her, I have an idea. "Do you trust me?"

"With my life."

I freeze for a moment, stunned by the solemn reply. "And I trust you with mine," I reply honestly. "Sit back down on that boulder for me?"

She reluctantly complies, her confusion plain as she settles upon the stone surface. Her limbs are awkward, hands fisted in her lap. I kneel beside her, taking her hands in mine and prying them open gently with my thumbs.

"Relax, Betts. I've got you."

The canopy overhead scatters the sunlight, creating an illusion of twinkling lights upon her face. My breath catches as I release her hands, placing them at her sides.

"What do you want me to do?"

I tease an errant strand of hair forward to graze her cheek, trembling at the softness of her skin. "I want you to look to your right, at the river. Lean back just a little, onto your hands, a little reclined."

Betty reluctantly complies as I take several steps backwards, framing the shot. "I feel weird," she confesses.

"Posing for photos is always weird. Alright, stay as you are, but close your eyes and just listen to me, okay?"

Her eyes close and her chest heaves as she inhales sharply, as if expecting something sudden and violent. The voice in her head is a monster, a pathological liar, a nightmare loop. I intend to record over it.

"You are Betty Cooper, the most intelligent woman I have ever known," I begin, raising my camera. "You are a gold medal athlete, an accomplished journalism student, Riverdale High's class valedictorian in 2015. You spent three years volunteering at the Greendale animal shelter because you couldn't bear to think of kittens not getting enough hugs."

Betty laughs as I focus in, snapping a burst of shots.

"You once punched Reggie Mantle in the arm because he called Ethel Muggs 'Miss Piggy'. You successfully raised five thousand dollars for Flint Michigan's water crisis in three days. You've never backed down when it matters, and you _always win_."

My finger clicks the shutter as Betty bites her lip, bowing her head slightly.

"You spent a year tutoring Archie so he wouldn't fail and fall behind. Because you knew he was terrified of people making fun of him for it. You never once called me weird, even when I so clearly am. You're a loyal friend, a loving sister. You're beautiful inside and out, Betty. It's why you are so loved by so many people."

My voice breaks as I choke down the unspoken end of that sentence. I snap a few more photos, zooming in closer as I circle towards the river bank.

"Open your eyes," I urge her.

I hide behind the lens, watching her watch me as I capture this moment. Betty Cooper, guard down, lips curved in a shy smile as golden light dances upon her porcelain skin.

"The next time that voice of yours pipes up, I want you to hear mine instead."

Burst mode. She is stunning, the embodiment of a muse.

"And if the memory of this moment fails you, you call me," I continue. "Because I will tell you all over again, day or night."

I lower my camera, tugging it free of my neck and turning it off. I busy myself with removing the lens and packing it away, my stomach roiling from nerves and years of wanting what I can never have.

"You really see all that?"

I zip the bag shut, pivoting in her direction with a smile. "Of course I do. Because that's the truth."

Betty laughs softly to herself, her fingertips dancing along the surface of the boulder, as if playing piano. "I'd say it's an embellishment of it. But thank you, Juggie."

"Um, excuse me, but I am a _serious journalist._ Just the facts, ma'am," I tease, sitting beside her. "Maybe you're just not that observant. Should I alert Columbia?"

Betty gasps, playfully jabbing me in the arm. "Me? I distinctly recall it was _you_ who stepped in a patch of poison oak when we were eight because you were too busy arguing about which Ninja Turtle was the best with Archie."

"Oh, pardon me for not being a botanist before high school!"

"You don't have to be a _botanist_!" Betty laughs, leaning against my shoulder with a soft sigh. "This is nice."

"Yeah." A moment of hesitation passes before my arm wraps around her shoulder, squeezing her tightly. "Feeling better?"

"Much."

"You hungry?"

"A little. I bet _you_ are," she teases.

I shrug nonchalantly. "I could eat."

"Juggie, if you're awake, you're ready to eat. Come on, let's hit Pop's. My treat."

We make the trek back to the public lot with our arms linked. I tell myself it's to steady Betty, who's still in her heels from work, but deep down, I'm grateful for the contact. As I load my camera into the trunk of my car, I pause.

"Betts! I never told you about Andrews Construction, did I?"

Her hand pauses on her car door as she glances in my direction. "What about it?"

"Hermione Lodge owns half of it now." I grimace, slamming the trunk. "It was a condition of the SoDale contract.

Betty's jaw falls open. "Oh God, Fred too?"

"Business was on the verge of going belly up. His sites were getting trashed, workers were being lured to other companies… Sound familiar?"

With an angry huff, Betty yanked open her car door. "We need to take him down, Jug. Faster."

"No argument here," I mutter, slipping into my Jetta.

* * *

**Jughead: 9 Days Ago**

You think things are okay, until you're being dodged.

For the first time since I'd arrived in Riverdale, Betty and I had gone a day without seeing or talking to each other. It had been the longest Tuesday of my life. No lunchtime hang. No dinner and sleuthing in the basement. No phone calls. Barely a text exchange, a simple "swamped with work" excuse and I'd resigned myself to burgers with my dad and digging through court transcripts and a few articles Mira had dug up on the Blossoms via LexisNexis.

Not even the social media buzz last night had enticed more than an emoji from Betty, and I'd made a point of using our code exchange to confirm her safety. Governor Dooley's election financials had just been filed and lo and behold, he was debt free thanks to a casino win at a St. Clair casino. I'd expected more than a _thinking_ emoji.

But maybe today would be better. I'd woken up to a Happy Hump Day group text from Veronica that bordered on obscene, followed by Betty announcing an impromptu barbeque at Thistlehouse tonight. Our private chain of texts remained clipped and quiet compared to our previous lengthy banter, but I'd have a shot at confronting Betty in person about the abrupt shift. I spent the day drafting the story and working on research as distraction.

_It makes no sense_.

It's what I keep thinking to myself as I make the drive to Thistlehouse after a long, lonely day. Our dinner at Pop's Monday night was so relaxed, just two old friends bantering about movies and books. We'd parted with a warm hug and nothing to suggest that I had anything to worry about. So why was Betty avoiding me?

_It must be what she came to the river to talk about, but never brought up_, I conclude, signalling a turn for the side road that will carry me to the imposing mansion. I doubt she'll bring it up in front of Archie and Veronica tonight, but maybe I can pull her aside, or make a point of being the last one to leave.

Archie's car is already parked in the lengthy driveway as I arrive and I make a point of pulling up closer to the house to avoid boxing them in. I nervously run a hand through my hair and step onto the driveway. The front door is already swinging open, revealing a beaming Betty Cooper in a lacy black halter top and denim cut-offs. Her large, looping curls are held back with a thin hairband.

"Hey, Juggie! I hope you're hungry. Archie brought enough burgers to feed the football team."

_Oh, I'm hungry, alright. But not for burgers._

"You do realize who you're asking," I reply with a smirk.

"Come on, we're all out back."

She reaches for my hand, leading me through the house in my now bewildered state. Her cheer and warmth is a night and day difference to the curt avoidance since we last saw each other. Maybe I've been reading too much into things?

_Better to be sure_, my anxiety prods.

"Hey, Betts… are we good?"

She pauses at the rear door, brow furrowed as she faces me. "Of course. Why wouldn't we be?"

"Well, yesterday you seemed less than… _you_ when I sent you that link."

It's the safest tidbit to point to, the least _you don't care about me like I care about you_ moment I've been agonizing about.

"Oh my god, no! Juggie, I was a mess yesterday. It's my last week at Lodge Industries, so I've been trying to slowly back up everything I've been hiding in folders on various network drives. I'm behind on reports for Hiram and the last thing I need is for him to be keeping closer tabs on me while I do it."

Well, now I feel like an asshole. Betty was taking precautions not to get herself killed, and I was pouting about not getting enough attention. _Focus on the story, Jughead_.

"Okay, I just wanted to check in, because you said you wanted to talk Monday and we never really did…"

"Oh, that." Betty's cheeks flush scarlet. "It wasn't important. I realized I was overthinking, _as usual_, and took Veronica's advice."

Veronica waves at us to join her in the garden. With a roll of her eyes, Betty slides open the door and pulls me outside with her.

"Sangria time, B! And hello, Jughead Jones! So nice of you to join us."

"Pour me one too, Veronica. It's been a very long day of research and I need to kill a few brain cells."

We hover near the grill as Archie cooks, trading casual jokes and bantering about nothing of importance. It's a scene out of a movie, a summer comedy where the gang's all here, rah rah! Cue the music and the montage. Plates are passed, laughs are had. Picturesque party scene. Zoom in on the young couple in love as the redheaded athlete feeds a cherry to his doting girlfriend. Pan to a laughing blonde as she listens to a funny story told by a friend.

There's a current beneath, crackling. I feel it. Betty's called us together for a purpose. She waits for us to finish the key lime pie before she springs it on us.

"How do we feel about board games in the basement?" she asks pointedly.

Her stronghold, home of the tissue box scrambler. We refill our sangria glasses to brimming, sensing the need, and head inside. Betty hurries inside as we load the dishwasher and tidy the kitchen. We're being good house guests, of course. Nothing to see here.

When we convene downstairs, all pretenses of party have fallen away. The mood is somber as Betty perches on the arm of an oversized chair.

"We're free to speak. So, have we all read about Governor Dooley's incredibly lucky day at the casino?"

"Even has receipts and everything," Veronica scoffs, rolling her eyes. "Poker tournament win, he says. Up and up."

"After what we overheard between Xander and Hiram on Sunday, I obviously don't buy it," I interject. "Veronica, you know the St. Clairs. Would it be easy for them to fake the necessary paperwork for a casino win?"

Twisting her long black waves over her shoulder, she groans. "Oh, don't even get me started on how easy that would be. This has Daddy's fingerprints all over it. It's a pay-off. And I know exactly how to prove it."

Betty leans forward, eyes widening. "Really? That's great, V! How do we do it?"

"Not we, Betty. Me," Veronica replies firmly. "The St Clairs are family friends, which means I have a social cache you simply cannot earn in a few days' time."

Archie sits his drink aside suddenly, shaking his head. "No way, Ronnie. You're not spending time with that slimy bastard. Not after what happened last time."

Veronica rises to her feet, staring her boyfriend down. "I can handle Nick, Archie."

"No, it's not worth it, V," Betty insists in a worried tone.

"Wait, wait, wait. What happened last time?" I interject.

"Nick tried to rape Cheryl," Archie blurts out angrily.

My jaw falls open in shock as the room erupts in a chorus of arguing voices: Betty is pleading with Veronica to stay away from Nick; Archie is ordering her to stay away; and Veronica is calling them both hypocrites for asking her to do nothing. I push away the initial shock, picking up the pieces between the lines: Nick slipped something in Cheryl's drink, but Veronica, knowing he had a tendency to take advantage of women, tracked her down with Betty and Kevin and rescued her.

"Alright, alright!" I yell over the din, standing up. "Veronica, their concerns are very valid, and I share them. _But I also understand that you want to help_, and that you think you can do this safely. So instead of everyone arguing, why don't we come up with a plan for Veronica to safely get the information we want from Nick?"

"Finally, someone with sense!" Veronica throws up her hands and huffs. "I'm not stupid, Archie. But this may be our one chance to figure out exactly why the St Clairs are working with my dad."

Time flies by as the four of us devise a plan that will afford Veronica a private meeting with Nick that we can monitor, lest it go wrong. With the St Clairs in town for the week, Veronica sets things in motion with an invitation for dinner and drinks for the next day. Archie is still unhappy with the arrangement, but the fierce look in his girlfriend's eyes leaves no room for argument.

I sense that the burden of knowing her father is hell-bent on destroying the town is taking a toll, that this spy mission is her way of reclaiming power. I say nothing of it, instead taking notes and planning to be available as an emergency getaway vehicle, should Betty and Archie be unable to assist her.

With the hour being late, Betty announces she needs sleep, meaning no chance for me to talk to her privately. _Damn it._ Reluctantly, I follow Veronica and Archie upstairs, pausing to hug Betty goodbye on the way out. I've barely unlocked the door of my car before I feel a tapping on my shoulder. Spinning around, I'm startled by the grim expression of Archie Andrews.

"Something occurred to me Sunday, after you two left without saying goodbye," he begins ominously. "It's been in the back of my head, just out of reach in my memory, until I saw you two."

"Archie, I don't understand—"

"You had a crush on Betty when we were kids. Before you left for Toledo, I mean. You never admitted it, but I always felt it was there. Just the way you looked at her, or talked about her—"

_Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!_

I laugh nervously. "Really? I may have thought she was pretty, the same way _you_ thought she was pretty, remember? But I have no idea what you're talking about. I mean, Sunday? We were wasted on Cristal. Nothing more than that."

It's a good deflection and a true one: Archie had once made a comment about how good Betty looked at a dance in grade seven. Archie frowns as Veronica honks the horn of his car, tapping an imaginary watch upon her wrist.

"I know what I know," Archie continues, learning against my Jetta. "Jug, look. I'm only talking to you because I've watched Betty get treated like shit for years by a string of losers and I'm tired of seeing her get hurt. So's Ronnie. Whatever is happening with you two, just don't break her heart, alright? She can't handle it."

Don't break _her_ heart? I really need to clue Archie in on just who the heartbreaker is in this duo. Or maybe he can ask Veronica for the details of their late-night conversation on Sunday, where Betty declared our interactions as nothing more than a means to an end for the story.

"This conversation seems pretty pointless, since Betty doesn't like me that way, Arch," I mutter, yanking open the car door and slipping inside.

"Like you don't have feelings for her? Sure. Whatever, Jug. Goodnight."

As Archie shuts my car door and storms away, my gaze is drawn to Betty's bedroom window, the curtain illuminated by a warm yellow glow. Whatever Archie knows—whatever he _thinks_ he knows—none of it matters.

The story—and Betty's safety—comes before my heart's foolish wanting. But when this is over, I promise myself I will do what twelve year-old me never could do. I will tell her _everything_.

* * *

**These two aren't fooling anyone, except each other. GRR. But they do have a point: things are getting more dangerous by the second with Hiram, and we're fast approaching the present/the events of the Prologue (which you may want to re-read at this point). **

**Next up: Veronica takes on Nick St Clair in a unique POV, while Betty and Jughead come the closest they've been to the truth of Hiram's plans.**


	12. All the gold and the guns and the girls

**Here we are, the next chapter in our tale, with a new POV. I really enjoyed stepping into this character's head for a while and hope you like her.**

**Chapter title taken from Gold Guns Girls by Metric.  
**

**TW: vague references to attempted sexual assault (nothing graphic)**

* * *

"**All the gold and the guns and the girls couldn't get you off…"**

**Veronica: 8 Days Ago**

Here's the thing about rich boys: they're all the fucking same.

I grew up in the elite echelon of Manhattan, preschooling with the proverbial Who's Who. Celebrities were my playmates on the playground, not that we were actually allowed to play. Mustn't dust up the Dolce custom dress, after all. You learn that quickly after a stern talking to from Daddy Dearest.

Growing up rich means growing up getting everything you want—and everything you don't. Until you learn to want it. You want the attention. You want the power and prestige—forget want, you _expect_ it. You expect to be wanted, expect that the world is yours to possess. You want to be the baddest bitch and you want to destroy anyone in your way.

And then you do destroy someone… and one of two things happens: you embrace the dark side, or you quietly rebel. I chose the latter.

Nicholas St. Clair, the sole heir of Xander and Simone St. Clair, chose the former. He is a petulant toddler of a man, like so many of the wealthy sons of America. What he wants, he expects. He gets it, one way or another. If that means a bribe, Mommy and Daddy will pay it. If that means he threatens your livelihood, he will do so to gain access to your establishment. And if you refuse him access to your body, he'll just slip a little GHB in your champagne and wait.

Archie knows what happened to Cheryl Blossom because I helped stop it. What he doesn't know is how I know Nick's schemes.

I know because Smithers rescued me from his clutches once.

I was fifteen, and it was New Year's Eve. Our parents were drowning themselves in expensive alcohol at an elaborate soiree hosted by the senator, while the children of the Upper East Side ran wild in the estate of an IT millionaire. My bestie at the time, Isobella Du Maurier and I, had graciously accepted the invite of Nick and his school chums to hang out. Underage drinking? How _Gossip Girl_ of us.

The mansion was awash in drugs and drink. I stuck to champagne. Isobella dropped acid and abandoned me for the star of some Disney show. Nick stayed by my side, like a good friend, or so I thought. An hour before the ball dropped, Nick refreshed my drink. Twenty minutes later, I felt strange.

Maybe he thought I was a wild drinker like the rest, but it was only my second. I knew I shouldn't be drunk yet. I'd had far more at family weddings. I excused myself to freshen up and called Smithers for a ride home.

By the time he found me, I was half-naked in a bedroom with Mr. St Clair, weakly pushing him away. Smithers apparently pulled a gun on him. I wish I remembered it. Smithers is such a softie, I would never think him capable.

I suppose I could have told my parents, but I've kept this secret in my back pocket for years. Secrets are valuable currency in the world of the wealthy. And tonight, I plan to use this knowledge to full advantage.

I screw on my practiced smile as Nick meets me at the restaurant, exchanging hugs and cheek kisses like old friends. Lulling him into that false sense of security. Oh, he thinks he is the spider, but he is the fly tonight. My web has already been woven.

"You look enchanting as always, Veronica," Nick remarks lustily.

"Thank you. Archie seems to appreciate me."

Ah, he does hate to be reminded of my boyfriend. Nick sours slightly, but quickly corrects himself.

"Will he be joining us this evening?"

"For dinner, yes. He's running a bit behind, but said we should go ahead and get started."

This is all according to plan, of course. I know Nick's game. I want to ensure he waits for the privacy of the Five Seasons to strike—or try to, anyway.

We order drinks at our table, exchanging pleasantries over an appetizer as I feign checking my phone in increasing concern. A call comes in, as planned, and I step away. It's Archie.

"You ready?" he asks quietly.

"We're waiting on you," I reply, our code to proceed.

"Everything's in place at the hotel. Jughead's going to follow you back there."

"What do you mean you can't make it?" I ask louder, sounding hurt. "Archie, I told you this was important to me."

"I love you, Ronnie. Be careful. I don't trust him."

_I love you too, Archie_. "If you can't make me a priority, then fine! Nick and I will just have to amuse ourselves!"

I hang up abruptly, summoning up the anger I felt when Smithers told me of my near-miss years ago as I return to the table. Nick glances up at me with concern.

"What's wrong?"

"Oh nothing, except my boyfriend can't seem to prioritize one simple little dinner with his girlfriend!" With a huff, I slump into my chair. "I'm sorry, Nick, I'm not feeling like being around people. Would you mind terribly if we retreat somewhere quieter? Maybe we can order in room service at the Five Seasons?"

"Of course, Veronica! Whatever you need."

His words ooze insincerity, scarcely hiding his glee. I'm the one trophy he's yet to garner. The one territory left unmarked. Poor hapless man must think he's won the lottery.

_That's what I want you to think, darling Nick._

We ride to the Five Seasons in his limo, of course. Ever the pretentious bastard. Nick offers me a drink but I dismiss it, insisting my stomach is turning from anger and I need to eat something first. I need to be in the room to pull this off. I send a carefully coded text to Betty, not putting it above Nick to spy on my phone.

"What was his excuse for blowing you off?"

"Something about his father being behind on work," I mutter angrily. "I understand family. You and I both know a great deal about loyalty. But his father works for mine. Like I can't let Daddy knows the delay is my fault, right?"

"Exactly. A little networking with family friends," Nick replies, smirking.

"He just doesn't understand how things work in our world," I lament. "I love him, but he's a bit simple."

I hate myself for the lies, but I need to be certain Nick feels I am the Veronica he's known since grade school. The one he thinks he can manipulate. Thankfully, it seems to work. He and I exchange stories and jokes about old times as we arrive at the hotel, sealing ourselves away in his room. I place the room service order as he pours a drink at the minibar, making it complex—choosing a series of appetizers for myself over an actual meal. It's the key to my deception.

"Scotch for you?" he calls out.

"Oh, no!" I reply, scrunching my nose. "I've ordered a fabulous Cabernet that will pair perfectly with the goodies I've ordered. Last thing I need is to hurl truffle mac and cheese all over the place."

Nick looks slightly annoyed but shrugs it off. "Suit yourself!"

Eager creep. He'll just have to wait a while longer. He makes his way through his Scotch while I pop a can of La Croix from the minibar, laughing at his pathetic stories about Aspen and Venice. When the food arrives, I eagerly rise to answer the door.

This is the opening I want him to _think_ he has.

I sign the bill, nodding to Betty at the end of the hall. "Nick, can you pour us the wine? I feel like a toast!"

"Of course!"

He practically runs for the bottle. Fucking bastard.

I thank and tip the hotel staff, asking benign questions about how late we can order more wine to drag things out. Making sure Nick has plenty of time to do his worst. When I turn around, the small dining table is set out with food and Nick is approaching with two wine glasses in hand. I settle into my seat and he very deliberately extends the glass in his right hand towards me.

"Thank you! Now, what shall we toast to?"

"Hmm. How about—"

A sharp knocking upon the door startles Nick. I stare at the table, my finger dancing as if counting dishes.

"I don't see my charcuterie board," I muse aloud.

Setting down his wine glass, Nick rises from the table. "They must have realized what a terrible error that would be," he jokes, chuckling to himself.

I swap our wine glasses as Nick opens the door, revealing a bewildered room service attendant, a platter in hand.

"I'm sorry to disturb you Mr. St Clair. The kitchen told me this was for 1105, but the guest insists she didn't order anything. Did you happen to also request a charcuterie platter?"

"Yes, my guest was just noticing its absence. Thank you."

I wave happily to the attendant, lifting my wine glass in salute. That was perfect. My fallback plan was to knock my glass over and swap later, but this has gone off without a hitch. Nick locks the door and returns with the platter and resumes his toast, none the wiser.

"To old, dear friends," he toasts.

"To those we know best," I agree.

I take a large gulp of wine, monitoring his reaction. He's far too happy about the whole thing, lending credence to my theory that once a rat, always a rat.

"So, I've noticed our parents are back in business again," I muse, popping a cube of cheese in my mouth. "Are they building a casino into SoDale?"

Nick laughs, popping a fry into his mouth. "Oh come on Veronica, are we really talking business?"

"Well, isn't it our business? These will be our dynasties, Nicholas. You and I will be thick as thieves in the future. Let me guess: Daddy's playing clean up on the casino's messier money through SoDale investments?"

Nick loosens his tie, taking another sip of wine. "My parents don't tell me a lot."

"But you eavesdrop, like me." I blink my eyes a few times, working my acting classes from summer camp. "Whew! That is a _good_ wine!"

Nick smirks at me as he reaches for his burger. "Lightweight!"

"Oh, screw you!" Spearing my fork into the serving dish of mac and cheese, I continue to pry. "Riverdale's a ghost town, anyway. About time someone livened things up. If we get rich doing it, who cares? Once I'm done college, I'm off to Europe. Italy, maybe. You should try this Nick, it's delish."

I take another large gulp of wine, continuing to lay the groundwork. He matches me, although I'm still about a third of a glass ahead of him. I should still be able to loosen his lips on his parents' dirty dealings, though.

Nick obliges me, trying my appetizer. "Mmm, that's amazing. And you're right, you know: this town is a shell. Your dad's vision is making it worth something. Condos, shopping mall, the prison—"

_The prison?!_

"Profits galore," I casually agree, because if there's anything I know about my father, it's that any prison he'd build would be for maximum profit. "Surprised do-gooder Mayor McCoy is putting up with the prison part. Or maybe I'm not, looking at our Governor's lucky day at a St Clair casino!"

I laugh and wink, sipping my wine. I sit the glass down clumsily, as if very tipsy and sloppily reach for a puff pastry.

"Now Veronica, are you implying something about my parents' thoroughly legal business?" Nick teases, reaching for my hand.

I fight the urge to gag, playing along. "Oh, no, not at all! But a casino can certainly make it easy to make someone's day brighter when you can't _overtly_ do so. You and I both know that. Catch up!" I urge him, lifting my wine glass. "We have a bottle to finish."

Nick concedes, draining most of his glass to my delight. "Care for a refill?"

"Soon. But first, food. Have you tried these lobster puffs? They're positively _sinful_."

I dig into the feast I've ordered on his dime with no regrets, taking silent delight in the glassiness in his eyes as the meal progresses. It doesn't sink in right away—those who master in manipulation seldom believe themselves capable of being duped, after all—but when he seeks a refill and tumbles to the floor in a sloppy heap, Nick finally clues in.

"'Ronica? I feel…. Weird?"

"Well, you have been drinking an awful lot, Nicky."

I rise from the table, draining my wine glass and stepping around Nick in search of the bottle. My companion makes it to his knees, but slumps on them, kneeling before me.

_Beg, you dog_.

"So, my Daddy asked _your_ Daddy to pay off the Governor's debts with a casino win as a bribe for the clearances to tear down forest land and build a for-profit prison in Riverdale, among other things," I recap, filling my glass. "The governor pressures Mayor McCoy, who's already been leveraged with some personal dirt and Daddy gets whatever he wants. As a bonus, your family gets to wash their dirty crime money clean as real estate investments. Do I have it all, Nicky?"

"I… Yeah, but…" Nick's hands plant on the ground, pushing against it, but he scarcely manages to get one foot steady before it buckles beneath him. "Wass wrong wit' my feet?"

"Why don't you tell me?" I coo, pausing to sip my wine. "After all, it's your drugs that have done it to you."

A flicker of understanding crosses his face, cutting through the disorientation of his little chemical accomplice.

"Oh, you don't think I know your games, Nick? About what you did to me years ago? Or what you did to Cheryl?" Setting my wine glass down on the dresser, I pull a switchblade from my garter belt and flick it open. "You're a piece of work, aren't you? I switched the wine glasses, _asshole_. Now, what should I do with you?"

"You _bitch_!"

His hands swipe at my ankles and I laugh, jabbing my knife against his throat. "Test me and I will jam this in the organ you value most."

I pluck his cell from his pants pocket and drop it in the ice bucket, ensuring he has no quick escape. I sip my wine as he crawls, curses and ultimately rolls onto his back, breathing heavily, mumbling and groaning. Subdued, as he'd hoped I would be. A part of me is terrified, imagining myself this helpless, but I shake it off, texting Archie the code to come meet me at the room. He is at the door in a minute—was almost certainly outside pacing in the hall, waiting for sounds of trouble within. Together, we drag Nick onto the bed and tie him to the frame for good measure.

"Did he hurt you?" Archie asks.

"Not a bit," I assure him. "Let's go."

Archie's arm wraps around me protectively as we head down the hall and I lean into his touch. He murmurs in my ear, tells me I'm shaking. Adrenaline, I tell him, and maybe it is. Maybe it's a body memory of a party years ago.

Archie calls off Jughead for the night and we head to Thistlehouse, where an anxious Betty is pacing in the driveway.

_Way to look suspicious, B_.

"You're late," Betty blurts out, rushing to my side.

"I'm fine," I insist, hugging her tightly. "I'm also cold, so let's go inside."

We make our way downstairs, where I recap my little dinner with Nick and what I've been able to piece together. To me, this is enough to halt all further snooping: between the documents I know Betty has, what she's seen, and these details, it's more than enough to go through with the Times exposé. Everything else can be left to the Feds.

"It's not enough," Betty laments, pacing the basement.

"Um, hello? Bribery of a government official isn't enough to violate my father's probation?"

"We need more than a conversation with Nick St Clair. That's hearsay!"

I huff angrily, throwing my hands up. "Jesus, B, what is with your death wish? You have plenty of documentation of shady financials already. Let the cops figure out the finer details."

"I agree with Ronnie. You need to stop digging and let the authorities take over." Archie gestures to the folder of documents on the table between us. "You already have so much gathered."

"But nothing proving the payoff to Dooley, which would be critical. I can do some digging tomorrow while Hiram is offsite at a meeting—"

"B, I have supported your mission as much as I can, but this is _my father_. I know him better than you ever will, and if he hasn't figured out what you are up to already, he's close to it," I interrupt. Betty moves to speak and I wave her off as I continue. "No, you are going to listen to me. My father is a very bad man. He will _kill you_. He will do it with all of the consideration he would give to choosing a tie for an evening out. If you want more documents, you need to leave it to me now."

Archie's palm slaps the table in frustration. "No way! How about _neither_ of you keep digging into this?"

"He wouldn't hurt me, Archie. Not physically. Cut off my credit cards, make my life difficult, certainly. But he won't kill me. It would bring him more shame than it would be worth." My hand covers his, squeezing reassuringly. "Trust me. This is my world, not yours."

I'm pretty sure Daddy wouldn't kill me, but I need to sell this. I need my friends to be safe.

"Fine," Betty relents, clearly pissed off. "But I still need to gather the files I've hidden on the system. Tomorrow's my last day, anyway. I'm out of time."

"What's the plan afterwards?" Archie asks.

"Jughead's going to call me at lunch and surprise me with plans for a romantic getaway, which I will gush about to Angelique. He'll follow me home to Thistlehouse and we'll leave for New York immediately. I've already packed a bag."

"Well, we'll obviously help sell it," I assure her. "I'll pick out a nice spot, and Archie, if anyone asks, you can tell people you helped Jughead choose the place."

"Of course, whatever you need," Archie agrees. "We should probably go, let you get some sleep for tomorrow."

We embrace in turns, exchanging goodbyes and urging Betty to be careful. We're so close to the end of this nightmare now, so close to seeing her safely through. Betty holds me tighter than usual, pressing her face close to my ear.

"If something happens to me," she whispers, "there's a hard drive taped behind the shelf of cleaners in the storage closet on the third floor."

"Nothing will happen to you," I reply softly. "I won't let it."

I press my forehead to hers, meeting her worried gaze. She forces a brave smile and I tell her how much I love her before we reluctantly depart. We drive in silence, nearly reaching my apartment before Archie speaks.

"Ronnie?"

"Yeah, Archie?"

"Did Nick ever…."

"He's never hurt me, Archie."

Archie's white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel frightens me. He signals for the turn onto my street, his features steely in their resolve as he mulls my reply.

"But he tried, didn't he?"

I want to lie to him. I don't want him to look at me any differently. I want to spare him the rage. But we promised each other complete honesty when we confessed our feelings, and I won't betray him.

"From what I remember, he did try, yes. Smithers arrived in time."

"From what you _remember_?" Archie growls.

I wince, fighting the tears welling up. "Archie, please, for me. I don't want to go back there. I realized something was wrong. I called Smithers before I blacked out. He told me he got there before… and that's all I need to know. That's all_ you_ need to know."

"And you convinced me to let you be in that room with him? Damn it, Veronica! Do you know what he could have done to you?"

"OF COURSE I KNOW!"

I'm screaming now. I'm screaming and shouting and the car isn't moving or maybe I'm moving, maybe I'm moving somehow, faster than any car can contain.

"I know what he can do! I sent the cavalry after Cheryl. ME! I KNOW WHAT HE CAN DO! HE SPENT THE WHOLE NIGHT TRYING TO DRUG ME! I KNOW, ARCHIE!"

His arms fold around me and I sob violently, clinging to him. Adrenaline dump.

"I know," I whimper. "And I made him pay… Nine years and I finally made him pay…"

"You did," he murmurs, kissing the top of my head. "He's never going to touch you, Veronica. I'll fucking kill him."

"You won't have to," I vow.

I'd much rather handle him myself.

* * *

**Jughead: 8 Days Ago**

With Veronica successfully snaring Nick St Clair in her trap at the Five Seasons, I'm free to follow a lead on the drug problem in Riverdale, one that I suspect will shed further light on Hiram's operations on the Southside. I head to the Whyte Wyrm, taking advantage of my dad being at an AA meeting so I can chat up one of the new prospects.

The guy's name is Icebox, and no one, not even him, will tell me whether it's because of his chill nature, a propensity for murder, a history of jail time or a tendency to leave ladies sexually frustrated. I suspect it may be all of the above, but he's eager to please, especially once he learns I'm the son of the mighty FP Jones.

Takes two beers and an hour to get him on the topic of the new drug problem plaguing our streets: Fizzle Rocks. It's like Pop Rocks candy, only far more addictive and more of a _Breaking Bad_ shade of blue. Dissolves in liquid, if desired, although many enjoy the fizzy feeling of shaking it straight down the hatch. Icy tells me he did it once, but didn't care for the comedown. Too jarring.

"Probably why people get so hooked on it," he theorizes, gulping his beer. "To avoid the crash. Smart druggie chemistry, terrible for the user. Gonna get a lot of people killed."

"Where is it even coming from?" I wonder aloud. "I know guys get desperate for cash and move stuff unofficially now and then, Serpent rules be damned."

"It's definitely linked to that Lodge guy. Half the dealers loiter around the SoDale site after hours, so you just know he's in on the take. But this scheme of his? Serpents aren't the muscle this time," Icebox insists. "It's why I'm with the Serpents over other gangs. Standards, morals. There's gotta be a line."

I like this guy. I think he'll do alright around here.

"I agree. We gotta dirty our hands sometimes, but there's always a line that doesn't get crossed." I finish off my beer, shoving the glass away. "Do me a favour, Ice. If you get wind of anything else about the Fizzle trade, pass it along to me or Sweet Pea, alright? My dad needs to keep tabs on this. Last thing we need is the town thinking all gangs are bad."

"I got it covered. Thanks for the beer, Jughead."

I make my way out of the Wyrm, nodding to a few Serpents I know well: Sweet Pea, Fangs, Tall Boy. The SoDale site is buzzing after dark, huh? Maybe I should take a little spin around the neighbourhood. I grab my camera bag from the trunk and stow it in the passenger side on the floor, then make the drive to the construction site. It's a Thursday night, well after quitting time, but a beat-up Honda Civic is parked outside, as is a familiar Volvo sedan with Vermont plates.

_Betty's stalker from outside the diner. Now that's interesting_.

I loop around the block, pulling through a side street that affords me a concealed view of the SoDale parking lot. Pulling my camera from my bag, I manage a few quick snaps of licence plates before a scruffy looking young man in a leather jacket and a hoodie exits the construction site and makes for the Civic. I set the camera aside and wait patiently, watching as he pulls out and heads west. On an impulsive whim, I decide to follow him.

Inside my pocket, my phone vibrates once. A text message? I fumble for the device, keeping a careful distance as I tail the suspected drug dealer through the Southside, across the bridge into the Northside and along route 40. Hitting a straight stretch of road, I manage a quick glimpse at the screen and see a message waiting from Betty.

_Don't worry about that charging cable. Veronica had just what I needed. See you tomorrow?_

I smile, setting the device on the passenger seat. Looks like Veronica's mission was a success. I can't wait to hear what she managed to pry out of that slimeball St Clair.

My dealer makes a sudden turn and I nearly lose him in the darkness, scarcely spotting the driveway as I deliberately pass it by. My eyes widen as I glimpse the sign: _Blossom Maple Farm – Deliveries Only_. I continue down the road just far enough to find a ditch with ample greenery to conceal my car and pull off into the gravel.

This is it. That connection that's been bothering me between the Blossoms and Hiram's dealings. Whatever's going down is the key to it. I can't take the risk of driving down that back entryway. There's no way I can be inconspicuous. But if I walk in… maybe?

I send an email to myself, CC'ing Mira at the Times just in case, then grab my smaller DSLR. It's lighter, but the zoom is still powerful for my purposes. It's a fifteen-minute walk, taking my time to avoid rustling branches, minding my steps and avoiding noise, but I manage to creep close enough to find a sightline of the delivery bay.

The Civic is parked nearby, and Hoodie Guy is chatting with a bored looking man who wishes he was military near an unmarked white van. I snap a photo as an envelope changes hands, then grab the licence plates of the van and two unmarked delivery trucks. It's almost eleven at night, an unusual time for deliveries as it is, but the unmarked trucks are more striking. Anyone who's lived in Riverdale is all-too familiar with the garish branding of the Blossom Farms logo on their delivery vehicles as it makes its stops at the local grocery store and restaurants.

A man emerges from the storage facility, directing another man with a wooden barrel. I narrow my gaze, studying the way he loads it onto the truck. It seems light for a barrel filled with heavy syrup, for starters. Not only that, a wooden barrel seems outdated as a means of transport for the product in 2019.

"What the hell is going on?"

It occurs to me that something else is being shipped out of the farm at night, perhaps something Jason Blossom stumbled onto. Something that he was murdered over.

Swallowing hard, I make my careful retreat through the overgrown brush, picking a path back to my car. Thankfully, it's where I've left it and route 40 remains deserted. I wince as I turn over the engine, praying the sound doesn't carry to the goons on the Blossom property, and pull onto the highway with my lights off, preferring to put a few feet of distance between us before flipping on the headlights. The road curves ahead and I engage my high beams, dialing Betty's number on speakerphone as I curve towards the far side of town.

Voicemail. Damn it.

"_You've reached Betty Cooper. I'm not available to take your call, but please leave me a message and I'll get back to you as soon as possible._"

"Hey Betty, it's Jughead. Sorry for the late hour, thought you might be up. Anyway, I was thinking that since it's the weekend tomorrow that maybe we could go somewhere special? Give me a call when you can."

I take the long way home, circling back through the residential streets of the Northside, passing the Andrews house and Pop's before crossing the old bridge to Southside proper. It's well past midnight when I reach my dad's place, but I can't be too cautious. Not after all we've learned.

My dad is inside, flipping channels on the TV. A pizza box lies open on the coffee table, its contents half-eaten, and my stomach growls in greeting. I sling my camera bag over my shoulder, eager to send the photos to Mira.

"Hey, Jug. You're home late."

"Yeah, sorry about that. I was hanging out with Archie for a bit, then I took a drive to clear my head. Feeling a little emotional about heading out to school next week, I guess."

I cross the living room, make it halfway down the hall before I hear my father muttering something to himself. I pause, pivoting on my heel.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"You must think I'm stupid, boy," my father repeats, his menacing tone an icy dagger in my heart.

I carefully set my camera down inside my room, studying his features for the tell-tale signs of a bender. "Dad, are you okay? Did you have a drink tonight?"

"If I had, no one would blame me, with the trouble you're causing around town!"

FP Jones is on his feet, his stony gaze boring down on me as he marches down the narrow hall. This is the Serpent King, the man who rules the men of the Southside. His limbs twitch as he backs me against a wall and I instinctively flinch, fearing the worst.

"You didn't come home for a visit, did you, Jug?"

"I did!"

"Liar!"

"Fine! Maybe it wasn't strictly a visit, but I did want to see you, Dad. Just… you're scaring me," I admit quietly.

FP takes a step back, affording me enough space to maybe throw a punch. "You should be scared, but not of me. You have no idea what hell you're going to bring down on yourself if you keep sticking your nose where it doesn't belong, boy."

There's only one thing I can do now: go all in. "If hell rains down on this family, it's because you made a deal with the devil in the first place! Hiram wouldn't be swallowing up the entire Southside if you and the Serpents hadn't helped him drive down the property values on the Twilight. Without the Twilight, he can't get anything done. So spare me the lectures, _Dad_."

I'm calling his bluff and to my disappointment, I'm right: my father is responsible for the sabotage at the drive-in. He turns away from me, shaking his head.

"I owed Hiram a favour from years ago. He'd been holding it over my head for years. It was my only way to clean the slate. I'm not proud of it. But that doesn't make him any less dangerous." His eyes shimmer with tears as he faces me once more. "He _will_ kill you if you don't stay out of his business, Jughead. Do you understand me?"

I nod nervously, my fingers fisting in the hem of my shirt. "I know he will."

"I can't bury my son. Do NOT make me bury you, Jughead. Please, don't do this to me. Please…"

Wordlessly, I open my arms, beckoning my father into am embrace. I have no intentions of dying in the near future, but I won't back down from this story, either. With a reassuring pat on the back, I excuse myself and retreat to my room, where I quickly email Mira tonight's photos and an outline of tomorrow's travel plans with Betty before falling into bed.

I'm exhausted, my vision blurry, but I can't resist sending a few texts to Betty before sleeping.

_The ending of The Last Picture Show? Just as I told you. I checked into it._

_I miss you, B. Text me when you're up tomorrow so we can plan our weekend together. It's long overdue._

Fifteen hours until Betty and I leave Riverdale and go into hiding. I just have to stay alive until then. How hard can that be?

* * *

**I'll be honest. It's getting harder to write this story. It feels like no one reads it and lately, I've been struggling with writer's block. I might abandon it for a while and move on to another project for a different fandom for a bit. I'm trying to finish it up first, but it's tricky.**

**In any case, let me know what you think of Veronica's plan and her overdue victory over Nick. Do you think she's done with him?**


	13. A clock is ticking, but it's hidden

**I want to say thank you to everyone who left a review on the last chapter on FF and A03**

**I don't remember how much I've said, but for the last year, I've been dealing with a brain and spine injury that's kept me mostly trapped in bed/my house. It's been scary and painful, affected many things including my memory and vision (sometimes, it hurts to look at a screen so writing's a bust). Writing fic has been one of the few things I can do to pass time, so when this story hit a rough patch, it was like... come on, not this too.**

**But all of your kind words flooded in and just knowing how many of you lurk and enjoy it (I'm guilty of lurking and reading too at times!), loved Veronica, like this better than the show's plot (AWW) ... I sat down and said, "I can finish this, come on!" And thanks to you, I wrote TWO CHAPTERS QUICKLY. So here's one right now!**

**Warning: the next five chapters are INTENSE. Hang in there, okay?**

**Chapter title is taken from Somewhere A Clock is Ticking by Snow Patrol**

* * *

"**A clock is ticking, but it's hidden far away…"**

**Jughead: 7 Days Ago**

I roll over with a groan, reaching for my cell phone and frown when I check the time. It's twenty past eleven already, which means I forgot to set an alarm last night. Again. Still plenty of time to pack and prepare for the trip to New York, thankfully. I yawn and stretch my weary legs, swiping my unlock code and staring at my phone screen. The background is a picture of Betty and I from the Lodge Industries brunch and I pause for a moment, admiring her flushed cheeks and the brilliant green of her eyes.

_Just a few more days, and I will finally come clean. I will tell her how I feel, and live with the consequences._

Scrolling through my notifications, a strange feeling creeps over me. Secure emails from Mira, confirming she's running the plates and directing me to some motel options in Jersey. An email from my editor, Jessica, confirming a week is enough to write the story. A text from Archie, asking me to meet for lunch at his dad's place.

Nothing from Betty, though.

It's her last day at Lodge Industries, and I know she has a lot of last-minute file copying and document smuggling to do, but still… I would have expected a hello, a good morning, some sort of go ahead with our plan for me to surprise her with a _romantic getaway_ to get her out of town. I glance at Archie's text once more and roll my eyes.

_Of course! That's it, right there. He'll tell me what to do._

I grab a quick shower and finish packing my bag, stowing it in the trunk of my car before heading over to the Andrews house. Archie's car is parked outside, as expected, with no sign of Fred's truck. The curtains are drawn, which strikes me as odd: Fred's always been big on natural light. His open, warm heart has always reflected in his perpetually unlocked door and his lack of concern for big fences.

Jogging up the front steps, my fist scarcely raps on the front door before it swings open, revealing an anxious Archie.

"Hey Jug, get inside."

"Okay…"

He waves me past him, slamming the door and engaging both locks in a hurry. His hands, I notice, are trembling.

"Archie, what's going on?"

"I have a bad feeling, Jug. Something's not right, but I don't know what it is yet."

"Well, that makes two of us now," I agree nervously. "So this isn't a strategy meeting at Betty's request?"

"Betty? No, I haven't heard from her since Veronica and I were at her place last night. Although the official story is that I helped you pick out a bed and breakfast for your getaway. I know one in Lake Luzerne. Mom and Dad used to go there."

"So you haven't heard from Betty since last night?"

My heart is pounding in my chest. Maybe it's nothing. Last days at work can be filled with tedious administrative tasks and farewell lunches, never mind what Betty's secretly up to. But not a single text?

"I can't reach Veronica either, Jug. And after what happened with Nick St Clair, I'm worried."

"Alright Archie, start talking. _Now_."

We retreat to the kitchen, where I pour myself a cup of coffee. Archie rants about Veronica failing to mention that Nick St Clair once tried to rape her—something I'd wondered about, and also wish she'd disclosed—and that he'd made an attempt last night, as she'd assumed he would. The pieces of her plan—the room service orders, Betty being down the hall, the dinner cut short—fall into place and my stomach turns.

"Veronica set herself up as bait," I conclude, shaking my head angrily. "I mean, we knew Nick was dangerous because of Cheryl, but _Veronica knew_ it was guaranteed he would try and hurt her."

Archie tears at a paper napkin on the kitchen island. "Yeah, she knew. She should have told us. But she got what she wanted. Nick admitted Dooley's casino win was a payoff for permits to destroy forest land and to put pressure on Mayor McCoy to allow Hiram to proceed with SoDale. It's a shopping complex and a condo, but there's also a for-profit prison in the works."

"A prison?" My mind is whirling now, connecting the pieces. "I'm betting the prison is planned for the land adjacent to the river, on the old Southside High infrastructure. Connects to the Blossom property pretty easily. Speaking of, whoever's dealing the Fizzle Rocks? They're making night visits to the Blossom Maple Farm. So are unmarked trucks."

"You're thinking the Blossoms are into drug trafficking?" Archie asks, eyes widening. "Do you think Cheryl knows?"

"From what Betty tells me, Cheryl's always been the black sheep. Jason was the golden child, primed to take over the family business. But what if Jason found out about the drugs and wasn't interested? Jesus, Archie, what if his parents killed him to shut him up?"

I lean back against the fridge, setting aside my coffee. Maybe Hiram did the killing. Maybe that's why the payments from the Blossoms stopped. Either way, this has gotta be it. Jason died to conceal whatever was going down last night at the back entrance of the Blossom Farm.

"We need to talk to Betty," I insist, reaching for my phone. "Now. I need to get her out of town. And honestly, Arch? I think you and Veronica should leave Riverdale, too."

"I think you're right, Jug. I'll call Ronnie again while I pack."

Archie heads upstairs as I dial the switchboard for Lodge Industries, drawing a deep breath to stay calm. I want them to know I'm calling. It's all part of the plan. _Stick to the plan, Jughead. Romantic surprise getaway_. The phone rings three times before a cheery voice greets me.

"Lodge Industries, how may I direct your call?"

"Betty Cooper, please."

A pause. "I'm sorry, Betty Cooper is no longer employed here."

A knot forms in my stomach as I force myself to remain casual. "Oh? I thought this was her last day. I was hoping to take her out to lunch, if you all weren't treating her today."

"Oh, it was," the voice replies, "but Mr. Lodge let her take the day off as a thank you for all of her hard work this summer."

"I see. Thank you, I'll try her cell."

I end the call, my hand shaking violently. _If Betty isn't working today, why hasn't she answered my text?_

I jog upstairs, rushing down the hall towards Archie's bedroom, where I'm alarmed to find my best friend in a similar state of panic. He's dialling a number, cursing beneath his breath as I tap him on the shoulder.

"Betty was given the day off by Hiram," I whisper nervously.

"Veronica's not answering her cell or home phone," Archie replies. "I'm trying Smithers. He's a family friend. He knows about what Nick did to her—Hello, Mr. Smithers? This is Archie Andrews, Veronica's boyfriend?"

I stumble backwards in a daze, my knees bumping against Archie's bed. I crumple and fall onto the mattress, trembling as I consider the possibilities. Betty had files to retrieve. Had she snuck into the office to get them? Had Hiram caught her? Was Veronica helping her?

"I see. And she said nothing about where she was going?"

I glance up at Archie, waving to get his attention. He tilts his head askance and I mouth my question: _Has he seen Betty_?

"Okay, I see… Have you seen Betty recently?" Archie listens, shaking his head sadly. "Okay, thank you Smithers. Please call me if you see either of them."

I glance to my right, staring over the fence at the neighbouring house. "Archie? Alice?"

"I'll try her. Do you have Polly's number?"

"No, but I have Toni's and she's dating Cheryl. I'll start a call tree."

Numbers are dialled. Voicemails are left and some returned. Calls are connected and disconnected. The answers are all the same: no one has seen Betty or Veronica since the night before. It's half past one and neither of them can be accounted for. I call Betty's phone again and it goes straight to voicemail.

"We need to find them, Archie. Now."

Archie tugs violently on his red hair, then reaches inside a dresser drawer, retrieving a small revolver. My eyes widen in shock as he casually loads it, checks the safety and shrugs on his letterman jacket.

"What the hell?"

"Ronnie gave it to me a month ago, just in case. I'd say now is the time. Where do we start?"

I consider our options briefly, fighting the urge to vomit. "Thistlehouse. We haven't heard back from Polly, and maybe Betty is being held there, or hiding inside."

"Okay, let's go."

The drive to Thistlehouse should take fifteen minutes. I make it in ten, flooring it along the main streets, anxious for answers. It feels stupid to have waited this long to check the obvious. What if Betty's been attacked at her house, or worse? What if we get there and she's…

_No, no! I can't accept that. I won't!_

This is my fault. This took too long. We should have wrapped sooner, pulled her from that internship early. We pushed the limits and now she's paying the price, I know it. I feel it in my bones. Betty's in danger, and she needs me to find her.

The wheels of the Jetta squeal and spin as I swing into her driveway, the parking brake barely engaged as I throw open the car door and storm up the stony surface. Archie rushes up beside me, throwing an arm out to block my path.

"Slow down. What if someone's in there?" he hisses.

"I don't care," I mutter.

"I do. I'm a big fan of no one getting killed, alright?"

"So, what's your brilliant plan then?"

"Let me think!"

"You're taking too long," I protest, shoving him away. "I'm going in."

"Going in where?"

The two of us startle at the unexpected melodic voice behind us. As I spin around, I am greeted by a shorter, more curvaceous blonde who is undoubtedly a Cooper.

"Polly?" I guess.

She smiles warmly, eyeing me closely. "Jughead Jones, I presume? Betty wasn't lying when she said you grew up sexy. Hey, Archie. Mind telling me why you two are skulking around my front yard?"

"Is Betty here?" Archie asks. "We can't reach her."

Polly's brow furrows as she looks from Archie to me. "Um, no. She's at work. She got a lift this morning, I think. Guess her car's on the fritz again?"

"She didn't say anything last night," Archie informs me.

"Who gave her a ride?" I ask. "Veronica?"

"I honestly don't know, I wasn't downstairs. I heard her getting ready, heard a car beep outside and the door open and shut. I know it wasn't Cheryl or Nana Rose because Cheryl is at Toni's and Nana Rose is visiting her sister in Palm Springs." Polly hesitates, studying our worried expressions. "Is my sister in trouble?"

"I don't know," I reply truthfully. "She's not at work, Polly. That's all we know. If you see her, or hear from her, can you call me?"

"Okay, sure."

We exchange numbers, Polly punching hers into my cell with hurried precision. She holds my hand briefly as she returns my cell, her eyes boring a hole in my soul.

"Does this have something to do with Jason?" she asks quietly.

Reluctantly, I nod. "Among other things."

"Find my sister, Jughead. I'm scared."

"Me too, Polly."

Polly stands sentinel as we return to my Jetta, waving goodbye as I reverse out of the driveway. I'm not sure where to go next, but I can't stay still. There's a ticking in my skull, counting down to consequences I can't live with.

"Where next?"

Archie's fist thumps against the glove box. "Damned if I know. The Register? Maybe Alice has an idea?"

"I'll try anything. Let's go."

The fastest route from Thistlehouse to the core of the Northside cuts along route 40 to Sweetwater Crescent and I gun it along the single lane highway. We're a half-mile from the turn when Archie hears it in the distance: sirens. I immediately jam the brakes, wincing as the seatbelt cuts into my chest. The last thing I need is a speeding ticket and a lecture.

As the turn draws closer, it becomes clear that the last thing the Sheriff's Department will be doing is ticketing me today. Just beyond our turn, four police cars are blocking route 40 in both directions, their cherries spinning. The sirens swell, a scream in my head. The ticking in my skull is a thunderous roar.

"There's a fire," Archie whispers.

My gaze follows his pointing finger, spying a thick, grey plume of smoke billowing up from a deep ravine on the western side of the highway. In the distance, another siren blares: a fire truck, maybe. Possibly an ambulance.

I think of my unanswered text messages and fight back tears. _No, it can't be…_

I ignore our turn, gunning it towards the blockade. "I'll distract them. You get answers."

An officer waves his arms angrily as I swing the Jetta in beside a cruiser, my door opening before the car has come to a full stop. Archie, the athlete of us, pushes past a second officer with his football muscle as I argue my way through protests of a _crime scene_.

"No yellow tape, no cordon, no blockade!" I snap.

"Sheriff Minetta!" the officer tattles, glancing away.

I take my opportunity, milking speed and a gift for evasion to slip between the cars and dart along the trees to join Archie at the lip of the ravine. What I find there leaves me speechless.

Archie, on his knees, tears streaming down his cheeks. His fist bloody, beating against the pavement. The acrid smell of smoke, of burning gasoline and a nauseating stench I will come to understand is the smell of human flesh being consumed. Distantly, I am aware of Minetta screaming our names in anger, but my gaze remains fixed upon the BMW crumpled at the bottom of the ravine, fully ignited in flames.

Between the angry flickers of orange, my squinting eyes manage to read the licence plate: _VLODGE._

* * *

**I'll be hiding in a corner over here... the next chapter is already drafted and will be up soon! I just want to get back to being one ahead again, in case I hit another block.**

**How are you doing? How did the car get there and who's inside?**


	14. I woke up in pieces

**Hey everybody!**

**Cliffhangers are mean, so I won't make you wait any longer. This chapter is a tough ride but stay with me until the end notes!**

**Chapter title taken from "Goodnight Elisabeth" by Counting Crows**

* * *

"**I woke up in pieces and Elisabeth had disappeared"**

**Jughead: 5 Days Ago**

"Authorities continue to investigate the crash that is believed to have claimed the lives of Veronica Lodge and Elizabeth Cooper Friday morning on route 40. The cause of the accident remains unclear due to the extensive damage caused by the fire, but Riverdale Sheriff Minetta assures the town that forensic investigations will continue until the circumstances are fully understood."

The male newscaster chimes in, taking over from his female colleague. "Veronica Lodge, as we know, is the daughter of Riverdale developer Hiram Lodge and his wife, socialite Hermione Lodge. Her friend Elizabeth Cooper is the daughter of Register owner Alice Cooper, and a close friend of Veronica's. Friends of the young women describe them as close, 'almost like sisters'."

"Funeral services continue to be delayed pending the identification and retrieval of remains," the female newscaster adds. "It is believed Ms. Lodge was not wearing her seatbelt and was thrown from the vehicle, and her passenger, Ms. Cooper, was killed on impact."

"Turn it off," Archie pleads from the couch.

I comply, having had my fill of media speculation. I honestly can't tell which of us looks worse for wear at this point, as we huddle together in the Andrews living room: Archie's pale features have taken on a greyish pallor, while my eyes have sunken in, ringed in a purple bordering on a raccoon eye. Neither of us can manage to eat much, save the dinner Fred forces upon us.

Betty and Veronica, dead. How fucking convenient.

Part of me refuses to believe it. There's only one body so far. Until someone concretely says they have forensic evidence of Betty's demise, I can't help but hope for a miracle. Archie, too, harbours similarly desperate prayers. Our fathers think they're helping as they gently urge us to accept reality, but we remain steadfast in our denials.

I can still smell that body burning in the ravine. I think I always will.

Archie's hands fidget with a small, black box covered with velvet. My heart aches at the sight. That first night, as he'd cried in his room, he'd shown me the ring within. Told me of his dreams of a future with Veronica Lodge.

"_I was gonna propose to her, Jug. On Halloween. It's her favourite holiday."_

Trick or treat. What a cruel trick. She would have said yes. I know it doesn't comfort him, but I remind Archie every day that Veronica loved him. That she would have married him. Even I could see how she felt about him.

"_Betty liked you. You had to know_._"_

Archie's being kind. I confessed the truth, told him everything. Told him why I was waiting for the story to be done. In hindsight, it seems stupid. Maybe if she'd known, she would have been more careful. Maybe I would have been staying at her place that morning. Maybe she would be alive. Maybe…

"The vigil's tonight, isn't it?"

"Yeah…"

Archie sighs, slumping on the sofa. "We should go."

I stretch out on the floor, my fingers pressing into the carpet. "It feels like admitting defeat. Like giving up on them."

"Or it gives us a chance to watch Hiram. You know he'll be there, soaking up publicity. Fucking asshole."

I chuckle in spite of myself. "Kiss your mother with that mouth, Archie Andrews?"

He has raised a valid point. There's no way Hiram and Hermione will miss this, especially if they had something to do with the crash. And I have no doubt they had everything to do with it. If Betty and Veronica are dead, Hiram's to blame.

"If nothing else, we need to protect Alice, Polly and Cheryl," I decide. "It's what they would want us to do. I think I'll call my dad."

"My dad, too," Archie agrees. "He's tied up in their dirty business."

"Of course. But you gotta shower, Arch. You're starting to reek like a locker room after a game."

Archie manages a half-smile as he tosses a pillow at my head. "Alright, alright. You're worse than my dad."

"You know whatever happens, I've got your back, right?"

My childhood friend nods firmly. "And I've got yours. Always."

* * *

We arrive at the vigil in the town square at seven, our fathers in tow. The Serpents, at my behest, linger on the perimeter, watching over the Cooper family. It seems like the entire town is here, although the sea of faces blur together as I catch sight of the mounted photos of Veronica and Betty. The gravity of the situation—of their deaths—is a knife in the gut. I hurriedly excuse myself for the public restrooms and scarcely make it in time to throw up the sandwich Fred made me choke down. As I wash my hands and rinse my mouth, my father enters the bathroom, offering a pack of gum.

"I'm sorry, Jug. If you need to leave…"

"No, I need to do this," I insist, accepting the gum. "But thank you."

His arm wraps around me as we rejoin Archie and Fred, who have made their way to the front of the growing crowd. Archie is embracing Polly while a concerned man lingers nearby, his hand upon her shoulder. I assume he's the boyfriend Betty has told me about. When Polly sees me, she rushes forward, throwing her arms around my neck.

"Oh Jughead, I'm so glad to see you!"

"Polly, I don't have words," I murmur, hugging her tightly.

"It doesn't feel real," she tells me. "I feel like I would… It just doesn't feel real."

"I know what you mean."

I watch with interest as my father greets Alice Cooper with a familiarity that suggests far more than a passing friendship, before she turns to me. "My God, FP. He looks exactly like you did at his age."

"Chip," I quip, pointing at myself. "Block," I continue, jerking my thumb at my dad. "I wish we were meeting again under better circumstances, Mrs. Cooper."

"So do I. So do I…" Alice's gaze drifts to the podium, where Mayor McCoy's assistant is whispering in a hush with Sheriff Minetta and several other people. "If you'll excuse me, they've asked me to speak and I guess I should?"

"We're here for you, Alice," my dad chimes in, patting her arm.

_Hmm. They definitely have some history_. I don't have time to dig into it, though. The show, it seems, is due to begin. Several young students move through the crowd, passing out battery-powered candles and programs and a hush slowly falls over the crowd. Some cry, including Polly and a tardy Cheryl, who weaves her way up behind us with Toni. Polly leans against her boyfriend, while I find myself comforted by my father's steadying hand upon my shoulder.

The vigil passes in a blur: speeches about hope, about a Veronica and Betty that others knew. Archie and I knew them better. Minetta pleads for information about the crash, Hiram and Hermione pretend to be caring parents and Archie fights the urge to yell at them. Alice says little, but her love for Betty is genuine. Her words are the only ones that stay with me: a message of a young woman who always loved Riverdale, who saw the potential in everyone. Her refusal to give up on her until she holds her in her arms.

I notice Hiram's grimace at this remark. It buoys me, ever so slightly.

In the minute of silence, I pray for Betty to be alive, to be safely returned to her family. I pray for Veronica to be safely returned to Archie. I pray for justice to be done.

_Wherever you are Betty, I love you. Hold on. If you're still alive, hold on_._ I will find you_.

The vigil ends and the crowd thins slowly, those who've shown to be dutiful beating a hasty retreat. Those who grieve linger, lost and unsure of where to go. In the periphery, I spot Hiram and Hermione and nudge Archie. He nods, excusing himself and leading the way.

As Veronica's boyfriend, it makes the most sense for him to approach. We discussed this over dinner, while Fred showered and changed. I will observe, he will talk. As Hiram spots us, he gestures for Hermione to pause. Her black designer dress is elegant, almost too refined for the occasion.

"Archie, Jughead. I'm glad you're both here."

"I wouldn't be anywhere else," Archie replies. "Until we know for sure, I will always keep vigil for Veronica. She was my world, Mr. Lodge."

"As much as my wife and I would like to believe in miracles, Veronica is gone," Hiram replies sadly. "We're waiting for her remains to proceed with the service she deserves, so we can say goodbye."

Archie winces in pain, rendered speechless. My hand squeezes his shoulder as I take over for him.

"But we don't know for sure. I mean, we don't even know for sure that Betty was the passenger. The forensics are still under review. There's hope, Mr. Lodge."

Hiram's pupils are inky black, boring down at me as he scoffs. "I know it's the nature of a journalist to not believe a thing you hear, but Betty Cooper is confirmed as the passenger. Now, if you'll excuse us..."

He pushes past me, Hermione's arm linked through his, leaving us both stunned and angry. I'm so disgusted by his cavalier attitude towards his daughter's demise that it takes a minute for his words to sink in.

"Oh, fuck! Archie, this is all my fault. This is my fault."

"What are you talking about?"

"This! Betty, Veronica… he _knows_." I grip his shoulders, leaning in close. "Didn't you hear him? He called me a _journalist_. He _knows_, Archie. He knows about the story, and he silenced them for it."

But how? We were so careful!"

"Not careful enough." I kick the ground angrily, fighting back tears. "And now they're gone. Hiram's cleaning up and I'm next."

Archie jerks his heads over my shoulder. "Our dads are coming, and you need to leave town. Now. We need to tell them."

"I have one more thing to do, then I'll go. One more piece of the puzzle, but I'll tell my dad."

We rejoin our parents, each going our separate ways for the night. As much as I want to stay near Archie, I fear I am a liability for him now. We embrace tightly as we part, with mutual pleas to be safe. I reluctantly hop into my father's truck, checking my emails as he says goodbye to Alice and Fred. A message awaits from Jessica and I check it eagerly.

_Hey Jughead,_

_Ran the plates you gave us through my buddy. They're not tied to any commercial registries. They're personally owned vehicles, but that's as far as we got for now_.

_No word on Juliet?_

_Jess_

I ignore her question, turning my attention to my father. As he turns over the engine of the aging pick-up, I begin to speak.

"You know what I've been up to," I begin.

"Yeah. I do."

"Hiram knows. And he killed Betty and Veronica over it."

My father's hands fall from the steering wheel as his head turns in my direction. "Are you shitting me?"

"I wish to God I was, but he all but confirmed it just now." The tears I've been holding back for days begin to fall, tumbling traitors. "It's a long story, and the less you know, the safer you are. But they're dead because they were a part of it. I need to leave town, dad. Tomorrow."

"If Hiram killed his own damn daughter, you need to leave now, boy. NOW." My father pulls out of the parking lot, heading towards the trailer park he calls home. "I can get you some cash, not a lot, but enough to help you out."

"I don't need money. The Times will cover me. It's the least they can do after… this. But I can't leave yet."

My father curses beneath his breath. "I warned you, Jug. I warned you to stay out of this."

"Great, you told me so and the woman I love is dead. Thanks for the talk, dad. It fucking helped a lot."

I punch the dashboard in frustration, thinking of Betty's smile. Thinking of the way she bites her lip when she's deep in thought. I have one more stop on my way out of town, and I'm gone. There's a question I need to ask and only one person has the answer I seek.

"You always were under Betty's spell," my dad says.

"I just need my car. I have one stop, and then I'm gone. But you need to keep an eye on Archie and Fred. Archie knows what we were doing, too. I can't have anything happening to him when I'm gone."

As we pull into Sunnyside Park, my dad nods. "I'll put a couple guys on them. Polly and Alice, too. And I'm with you until you're out of town."

"Dad, I'll be fine—"

"Forsythe, _enough_. We do this my way now." My father parks the truck with a jerk, sighing deeply. "Whatever you've been doing, I don't want to know. But you're my son, and _no one fucks with my family_. Where's your stuff?"

"It's all in my trunk."

"I'll follow on my bike. Give me two minutes to take a leak and change."

His look says there is no room for argument and I nod in agreement. Figuring I have the time, I join him inside, keeping my black sweater but swapping the dress pants for jeans. My father pauses in the kitchen, digging through the cupboards and tossing me a granola bar.

"For the road," he says.

"Thanks."

"Where we going?"

"Bank machine, first. Then, the Coroner's office."

Thankfully, FP Jones is a man that knows when to skip the questions.

I pull the maximum from the card the Times gave me—three grand—and head for the Coroner's Office, where I know the night shift is helmed by Dr. Curdle. Betty has told me he was kind enough to pass her Jason's file for a fee. I'm hoping he can be persuaded to give me details about the body recovered from the crash with a little cash tonight.

I pull into rear of the parking lot, watching for my father to join me. I ask him to remain outside, stressing this is a contact of Betty's who will be more responsive to a single visitor. My dad isn't thrilled, but agrees, leaning against the wall and studying the surroundings. Drawing a steadying breath, I make my way inside.

Dr. Curdle is in his office, eating a bowl of soup and watching reruns of Matlock when I startle him. He seems intrigued by my presence, then concerned until I mention being a friend of Alice and Betty Cooper.

"I see. And as their friend, what brings you here?"

Curdle's voice is unsettling, as if he's plotting how to drug me and extract a kidney for sale on the black market. I find myself keeping a healthy distance. I pull five hundred bucks from my wallet, tapping it against my free palm.

"The body in the ravine. I want the truth. Has it actually been confirmed as Betty Cooper or Veronica Lodge?"

"That's a very sensitive matter," Curdle insists. "I couldn't possibly jeopardize a police investigation. I'm sure you understand."

"Sure I do." I pull another five hundred from my wallet, waving it around. "So, has the body been confirmed to be either of the women? This is off the record, Curdle. I'm asking for my personal knowledge."

Reluctantly, his hand reaches out, snatching away the bills. "No, no identification has been made of the remains. They're female, based on the pelvic structure, but the age range is broad and there's only a partial skull. What we have is consistent with Ms. Cooper _and _Ms. Lodge, but it would likely be consistent with half the people in town with well cared for teeth. I have no idea who is in my morgue right now."

_Hiram lied. They don't know it's Betty yet_.

"And yet everyone's saying it's Betty Cooper. Any idea why?"

Pocketing the cash, Curdle shrugs. "I'm just a coroner, Mr. Jones. I don't ask those questions."

"And there's no second body?" I pry further.

Curdle frowns. "The remains are so badly damaged, it would take a forensic anthropologist to make the determination as to whether the remains outside of the vehicle differ from those within. I honestly can't say."

"Thank you, Dr. Curdle. I won't take up any more of your time."

I make my way down the hall with a half-smile, buoyed by a sliver of hope. _It could be Betty. It could be Veronica. It could be neither of them_. Nothing is set in stone, which means there's hope of this nightmare not being real.

_But if they're alive, where are they?_

As I slam the crash bar and step out into the night, I know the only thing I can do now is expose Hiram. Gather the leverage and barter for the truth.

"Find what you were looking for?" my dad asks.

"Maybe."

"And now you're leaving town." It's a demand, not a question.

"Yeah. I'm heading to DC."

"Alright. I'll escort you out of town, take you partway. Just to be sure"

"Dad, I'll be alright," I protest.

"We do this my way," he insists firmly. "Get in your damn car. We're taking the I87."

Too weary to argue, I comply, programming the GPS and pulling up a playlist of songs that remind me of Betty. Curdle's words comfort me, but I don't dare risk texting Archie. If I've been found out, Hiram could be monitoring Archie or me. I need to find another way to reassure him. Maybe Dad can tell him in person for me when he gets home.

The drive to DC is long, nearly seven hours. My father tags along to Allentown, Pennsylvania, where we both need to gas up. We pull into a Texaco station, each knocking back a Red Bull as we stare up at the stars.

"You need to be careful, Jug," Dad says at last.

"I will. This is almost over. And you need to tell Archie that the body isn't confirmed to be Betty or Veronica. Tell him to keep hoping."

"Is that what you went to find?"

I nod, crumpling my can of Red Bull. "I had to know what was true. Hiram was saying it was certain. It was one more lie out of his mouth."

"Is this worth it, Jug? Whatever you're chasing?"

"It is, Dad. I can't tell you why, not yet, but if you knew, you'd agree with me."

"Well, then… I want you to have something."

In the dim light of a gas station parking lot, my father passes me a Smith & Wesson. I grimace, shaking my head. Even though my dad taught me about guns as a kid, I hate the damn things.

"If you're going against Hiram, you need to be protected. You take this, or I assign five guys to tail you everywhere. Pick one."

_Fuck_. "Fine, I'll take it."

"You remember how to use it?"

"Yes, I remember." I hesitate, checking the safety before stowing it inside my glove box. "Thanks, Dad."

My father pulls me in for an unexpected hug, tight and suffocating. My arms wrap around him, needy and scared. A part of me wishes he would come to DC, stay with me through this journey, but I know I have to stand on my own feet now. I can't risk anything happening to him, or anyone else I care about. I have enough blood on my hands.

"I love you, Jug."

"Love you too, Dad. Drive safe."

"You too."

We part ways, north and south. I watch him fade into the distance in my rear view, a single weary tear sliding down my cheek as he disappears completely.

* * *

**Alright, I know. It's bleak. But let me offer some hope: this is the past still. **

**The next chapter brings us to the present, where we reach the prologue and find out who showed up at Jughead's motel room! Deep breaths, hang tight and hit that review button and let me know what you think: who is the body in the car? **


	15. So surreal, that a ghost should be

**So sorry for the delay in posting - with all the updates over at A03, I decided to wait for their system to settle back down, and then life was a little hectic. But here we are, another chapter. It's an important one, because we finally reach the present and find out who was at the motel door in the prologue!**

**Chapter title taken from Only If For A Night by Florence + The Machine.**

* * *

"**So surreal, that a ghost should be so practical…"**

"_**And I heard your voice as clear as day  
And you told me I should concentrate  
It was all so strange and so surreal  
That a ghost should be so practical  
Only if for a night**_

_**And the only solution was to stand and fight…"**_

_**Only If For A Night – Florence + The Machine**_

**Jughead: 1 Day Ago**

I've spent the last three days in a frenzy of research, writing and surveillance, taking advantage of the Times' DC Bureau and their knowledge of the comings and goings at the Capitol. Public information tells me Governor Dooley is in DC all week for meetings, affording me an opportunity for an ambush beyond his usual offices. I figure if Hiram's keeping tabs on his puppet, it will be at his home base, rather than here, where every movement is already carefully tracked.

The downside, of course, is that every movement is carefully tracked, every pass heavily vetted, making it difficult for someone like me to gain access—but not impossible.

I've acquired a new burner cell, thanks to Mira, and my dad checks in daily with a burner of his own. Minetta has released a report from the forensic anthropologist establishing that two sets of remains were found at the crash site, and that a unique filling in an upper molar identifies one of them as Betty. Alice is stalling on a funeral, but Dad says Polly is begging her for closure. I have six days to wrap this up and return to Riverdale, or miss saying goodbye to a long-time friend and the woman I've come to love over the last few weeks, even more than I thought I did back when we were teenagers.

The Lodges remain reluctant to proceed without a full set of remains, although they're referring to Veronica in the past tense. Archie's taking it badly. I want to be there for him, but I have to focus on this. If they're gone, it can't be in vain. It can't be for nothing.

I turn my attention once more to the itinerary Jessica has sent me. A senator is holding a town hall on gun control tomorrow, and Governor Dooley is slated to be in attendance to support his proposed bill. It's a long shot, but it's the most accessible he's been all week. I study the venue online, flipping through photos of past events, official stills from the property, thinking like security would. As satisfying as it might be to call him out on an open mic, it would likely just get my ass thrown in jail, the story delayed, and Hiram tipped off. No, I want to quietly approach him, plead for an interview, offer him a chance to _tell his side_. Still risky, but less threatening.

My eyes are blurring from hours of staring at a screen. It's past three in the morning, I notice with a weary groan. Checking the locks on the door and window, I stagger my way through my bedtime routine and fall into bed. I hesitate before rolling over, glancing at the mirror over the dresser. A picture of Betty from that day at the river, where I had all but confessed my love for her, is carefully wedged in the frame, as is a picture of the four of us from La Bonne Nuit. My nightly reminder of why I have to keep fighting.

"Goodnight, Betty," I mumble as my eyes flutter shut.

_I'm in the furnished guest house of the Andrews home, the one they'd always intended to rent out, but had instead used as an informal rec room and summer hangout adjacent to their spacious backyard. And, when we were kids, it was the designated party room for Archie's hectic childhood birthdays._

_As we grew older, the party moved indoors. Parents checked out, or kept upstairs, while pre-teens roamed in search of a closet or bedroom to tentatively test the boundaries of their blossoming desires. Me, I would usually hide in the guest house after my obligatory greeting and slice of cake, ducking out after an hour. It's not like Archie would miss me._

_The door opens behind me, jarring me from my memories. I turn around slowly, stunned by the sight of Betty in the door frame. She is her adult self, but she's wearing the shimmering purple strapless dress she wore the week before I moved to Toledo. The dress from Cheryl's party, the one Archie convinced me to crash with him. The one where Betty and I ended up hiding together, and eventually fleeing. She is so beautiful, her smile warm, her golden hair falling in soft curls around her shoulders. My chest aches at the sight._

"_Juggie," she whispers happily. "I had a feeling you'd be hiding here."_

"_You know me that well, huh?"_

"_Better than you think." She takes two steps forward, twirling in a circle. "How do I look?"_

"_Like someone who should know she is the most beautiful woman in the world, but I'll happily tell her anyway," I reply, closing the distance between us. "Betty, I should have told you—"_

_Her finger presses to my lips, silencing me. "Juggie, I'm a journalist. Do you really think I don't know?"_

_Emboldened by the grief of recent days, I caress her cheek. "I could make the same argument. You don't seem to know how I feel."_

"_Maybe I can't believe it," she admits reluctantly. "I've never been anyone's first choice."_

"_You're mine, Betty. My only choice." My voice is hoarse, my heart lodged in my throat. "It's always been you."_

_Her lips meet mine, soft at first, unsure. My arms wrap around her, drawing her against me, and the warmth of her is so alive, so vibrant, I can't stop myself from tugging her backwards, a stagger-stumble to the oversized sofa in the centre of the room. Betty giggles as I tumble onto the seat, breaking off the kiss. She stands over me, studying my flustered features with a bemused expression._

"_What am I going to do with you?"_

"_Something good, I hope."_

_With a smirk, Betty hikes her dress up and kneels on the couch, straddling my waist. "Something long overdue," she agrees._

_Her fingers fist in my hair, tugging my mouth to hers and I meet it hungrily, kissing her hard. My hands slide around her hips, pulling her against me, grinding her against where I need her most. She moans into my mouth and I shudder at the sound. Her right hand slips between us, tugging my shirt from my pants and working her fingers beneath the fabric. Fingernails rake my lower back as she rolls her hips and intensifies the ache._

"_You gotta slow down," I beg._

"_Why's that?" she coyly asks._

"_Because it's been a really long time since I've gotten laid and your dress is too nice to stain."_

_Tossing her hair back, she giggles. "Well, I could take it off to protect it."_

_The throbbing in my jeans is painful now and I groan. "Jesus, Betts, you're killing me."_

"_Better way to go than a car wreck, right?"_

_I grimace, pulling her close to me. "This is my fault. What happened to you, to Veronica. I slipped up when I talked to Minetta."_

"_Juggie, it's okay. Hiram was always going to get suspicious of me. I knew the risks." She kisses the top of my head gently, tousling my hair gently. "But are you really giving up on me so easily? Have you seen a body?"_

"_A forensic anthropologist has."_

"_Someone on Minetta's dime has seen it," she counters. "And even if I'm gone, the story's still alive. You can't let my story die."_

"_What I can't do is think with you sitting on my dick," I admit reluctantly._

_Betty laughs loudly, deliberately rolling her hips one more time. "I'm taking that as a compliment, Mr. Jones. But fine."_

_She shimmies her way across my body, settling beside me. My arm wraps around her shoulders and she burrows into my side, sighing happily. Her fingers dance along my chest, tracing hearts._

"_The story," she prompts. "You have most of it already."_

"_But not all of it. There was a lot of evidence you were gathering from Lodge Industries."_

"_True. But did you really think I was gathering a single copy?" _

_I hesitate, considering her question carefully. When had Betty Cooper ever been reckless enough to hang her hopes on a single copy of anything important?_

"_There's more copies to find?"_

"_Physical copies, digital copies… when have I ever kept only one?"_

_My fingers thread through her hair, gently teasing the curls apart. "For a ghost, you're incredibly helpful."_

"_I hate seeing you so lost."_

"_I miss you, so much. I should have told you so many things…"_

_She tilts her head up, staring at me with sympathy. "Tell me now. I'll hear you."_

_I open my mouth to speak, but only a shrill tone spills from my lips…_

I wake up with a frustrated curse, screwing my eyes shut as if that will bring back the dream of her. But she is gone once more, a conjuration of a guilty conscience.

My helpful specter. My beloved phantom. I touch my lips, swearing I can still taste the strawberry vanilla lip gloss. She has given me an idea: perhaps Polly knows the password to Betty's iCloud account. Maybe Betty has hidden a cache of files within. It's a long shot, but worth the gamble. When Dad calls tonight, I'll mention it to him.

* * *

**Jughead: Now**

I swing by the front office and pay off the next three days on J Truman's room in cash before heading back to my home base at the Towne Motel in Alexandria, a bag from the nearby 7-Eleven in tow. The Do Not Disturb sign is still in place as I enter, sweeping the unit for signs of entry and mercifully finding none.

My ambush of Dooley was a complete bust, thanks to his eager security detail. I couldn't even get within ten feet of the guy, let alone yell out a question over the din. I would have been better off getting on the mic in the town hall. I'd returned to the room in defeat, grabbed a nap, then ventured off into the night in search of caffeine and depression snacks. Dad had called while I slept, no message left as we'd agreed. My request to talk to Polly would have to wait.

_Fuck it_. Back to the story, with the pieces I already have.

The hotel room smells faintly of mildew and stale cookies—chocolate chip, perhaps. My subconscious need to identify the exact type of portable snack surely stems from the ominous growling of my stomach, but I can't surrender to something as base as human need.

There are lives at stake that I cannot risk for anything, even a slice of cold pizza from the mini fridge.

I crack open a can of Coke and open up my laptop, the fireproof mini-safe containing my paper documents and open several PDFs on screen. I drag and drop the sound files into a playlist, pressing play as my stomach lurches. That voice. _Her voice._ She trusted me, and I've failed her now. I've sealed her fate, with one careless slip of the tongue. I remembered it on the second day here, thinking of the conversation with Minetta. I'd called myself a _photo journalist _and Minetta hadn't missed a damn thing.

If Betty is truly lost, then these recordings—the truth that she was willing to lay down her life for—are all that remain of her.

Opening a new document, my fingers fly over the keys, setting the stage for the sordid story she whispers through my ear buds.

"_The last person who tried to take him down was murdered. I don't want to die. But I will not let my hometown be destroyed. I can't sit and watch it all be torn to pieces. I need your help. I need you to stop him."_

"_Why not take it to the police?"_ I hear myself ask.

"_He's got the governor in his pocket. The sheriff is on his payroll. This has to be public. The pressure needs to be on them all to ensure justice is carried out_._"_

This is front page news I'm writing in our nation's capital, but there is no celebration here, no joy. There is only a humble effort to ensure it wasn't all in vain. Most journalists would be cracking open champagne, but I'm only interested in cracking skulls. Must be my father's DNA.

I miss it at first, but the second knock—short, sharp raps—startles me from my work. I yank out my ear buds, reaching for the revolver my father foisted on me as we parted ways in Pennsylvania. I'm not expecting company and three in the morning is hardly a social call. A third knock is accompanied by a hushed whisper.

"Damn it, Jones, I know you're in there! Open up!"

My forearms are awash in goosebumps as I recognize the voice beyond the double-bolted door. _It can't be_. I peek through the hole, confirming my visitor's identity. _It's really her_. My heart shudders and skips as I flip the locks, ushering in the slender female tapping her foot on the stained carpet in the corridor.

"I thought you were dead!" I exclaim, waving her inside.

"As far as everyone else is concerned, I'm a corpse. The only way we all get out of this alive is if the world beyond continues to believe that."

Veronica Lodge, heiress to Lodge Industries, daughter of my nemesis and, for the last 7 days, believed to be dead in the same accident that killed Betty Cooper. In my mind, I see her car burning at the bottom of a ravine.

She settles onto the edge of the bed, stripping off her damp trench coat and discarding it on the floor. Her hand slides into her purse, tugging free a familiar object.

I lay the gun down on the bedside table, eyes widening. "Is that what I think it is?"

"You're damn right it is. It's everything we need to end this, once and for all. I can't undo what has been done, but I can make damn sure someone pays for it. One way—" She hesitates, gesturing to my weapon, "—or another."

The hatred for those who have taken from me, from us both, is feeding upon my grief. It would be so easy to make a call, to gather reinforcements and take this to the streets, but it's not what Betty would want. And with one corpse back from the grave, I cannot help but cling to a desperate fever dream of a second resurrection.

"We do this how she wanted it," I announce. "But if it doesn't work out, I'm very invested in Plan B."

She tugs absently on her ponytail, tightening it with a stern look. "Let's see why this little device I pilfered has been worth killing for…"

I close down the open documents on my computer and plug in the drive, immediately copying the contents to my cloud drive with the Times, just in case. As we wait, I stare at Veronica, shaking my head in disbelief.

"It's really you."

"In the flesh, dear Truman."

"There isn't a mark on you, not that I can see," I note, studying her for signs of a crash. "Goddamn it, Veronica, I've been mourning you. _Archie_ has been mourning you! Shit, does he know you're alive?"

Veronica's eyes darken, her gaze skirting the floor. "No, and he can't know yet. It's crucial that the world believes I'm dead, and Archie doesn't have the acting chops to fake grief. I need him to believe the lie so everyone else does."

"I don't like this, not one fucking bit. He's going through hell!"

"And I'm not? I'm doing this to protect him, to protect _all of us_."

Her voice cracks as she looks away, staring off into the distance at something—or someone—unseen. She hugs herself tightly, her palms running along her upper arms as if to warm them.

"Is Fred taking care of him?" she asks quietly.

"Yeah, he took time off from work. I was there for the first couple days, but when I realized your dad knew why I was really in Riverdale, I fled. The Serpents are protecting them."

"Thank you, Jughead." Her hands fall to her sides and she smiles in gratitude. "I was hoping I could count on you."

Draining the Coke beside me, I decide to change the subject. "So… your BMW in flames. Care to explain?"

"My doing. The plan was to fake my death, make Daddy believe I was dead so I could take advantage of some information Mother told me a month ago. Smithers helped me set it up."

I check the files—60% copied—and continue my interrogation. "Veronica, they found a body!"

"Medical cadaver, courtesy of our mutual friend Dr. Curdle. Ten thousand dollars for his assistance and discretion," she replies coolly.

"But he told me it wasn't your body for another grand," I counter.

"Only because I told him if you or Betty asked, he could be honest." Veronica shrugs, leaning back on her arms. "I assumed you two would find my accident hard to accept and would dig deeper. I wanted you two to know I was alive and understand that I had disappeared to find us evidence."

It all makes sense: Veronica calculated her every move, and it's worked. The entire town is ready to hold a funeral. And yet, something else is still bothering me… Oh yeah, the alarming and obvious question.

"Wait a minute. How did you find me here in DC?"

"I put a tracker on your car the night you came home to Riverdale. Once I got here, I asked for Truman."

She states this as casually as one would mention ordering a cheeseburger for dinner. My jaw hangs open as Veronica gestures to the laptop behind me.

"That looks done."

I open the folder, staring blankly at the myriad files before me. There's one more thing I need to ask before we fall down this rabbit hole. I spin around in the chair, my stomach in knots.

"Veronica… what about Betty?"

Veronica's hands fidget with the hem of her sweater as she shakes her head slowly. "I don't know why they're saying she was in the car. She's not with me and never was. I only planted one cadaver in there. I haven't seen her since last Thursday night at her house. I promised to get her more proof of the Dooley payoff and I set out to do just that. When I saw the news, I had Smithers retrieve the drive at the first possible opportunity and I came straight to you."

Now, I'm confused. "So what was the proof you wanted to go after then?"

"My dad has a safety deposit box in a bank in New York City. I've forged a driver's license in my mother's name and stolen the key from the family safe. Daddy flies there once a month still for business. He came back three days before my little accident, so now's the time."

Veronica is on her feet now, crossing the room towards the dresser. She stares at my photo of Betty, smiling wistfully at the image.

"I have no idea what happened to Betty, but if this box contains the kind of shit I think it does, it will be enough for me to rise from the dead and get some answers. In the meantime, we have a drive filled with documents from B herself. I say we take a look."

"Pull up a chair," I murmur, opening up several emails. "Let's see what Betty died for."

* * *

**Veronica Lodge, back from the dead! How much do you love her scheme to fake her death for her parents? Smithers is the best.**

**Betty, on the other hand... is still a corpse in Veronica's car, although Smithers and Veronica never put her there. Or is she? I promise, Betty's fate is confirmed in the next chapter as Veronica and Jughead team up to take down Hiram Lodge. **

**Drop me a line and let me know what you think about anything - Veronica's ploy, the safety deposit box, Jughead's dream, poor Betty... I'm listening.**


	16. It's such an easy way to choose

**While I'm avoiding the season 4 premiere because I know my feels will explode, I realized it would be cruel to keep you wondering any longer about Betty's fate so here we are: Veronica and Jughead set out to find Hiram's secret dirt and in the process, also learn the truth about Betty.**

**Chapter title taken from War by The Cardigans.**

* * *

"**It's such an easy way to choose – you lose."**

**Veronica: 9am**

My Louboutin heels make a satisfying _click_ against the marble tiles as I cross the grand lobby towards the service desk. I keep my wide-brimmed hat tilted low, my dark sunglasses on and my raven hair curled wild and teased forward, obscuring my features. Thanks to a few YouTube tutorials, I've aged myself with careful contouring, but only slightly—light laugh lines and an elongated jaw line. With a toss of my hair over my shoulders, I approach the disinterested man at the counter and set my purse down beside me.

"Welcome to First Meridian. How may I assist you?"

"I'd like to access my safety deposit box, please," I purr, presenting a small paper envelope labelled 1270.

For an upper class branch in Manhattan, the security is embarrassing. One flash of my fake ID, a coy smile and a signature later, and I'm guided down a corridor and through golden gates to a secured area containing several small rooms and the broad entryway to the vault. I feign boredom as the staff grab their key, leading me to the vault, where they unlock the outer box and withdraw Daddy's little box of tricks. It's a larger box, certainly enough to contain documents, gold bricks, weapons—anything a criminal might want to stow away.

_Let it be enough to save us,_ I pray quietly.

The box is settled into room 2 and the staff member excuses himself, leaving me alone in the plush looking closet. Two chairs, a broad table and a mystery box. I withdraw the key from the envelope, suddenly terrified of what I might find.

My father's never been a good man. I harbour no illusions. But he's also my father, and a part of me knows him as the man who took me for ice cream after school on Fridays and whisked me away to the carnival when I behaved during the summer months. I hate myself for being so conflicted. I hate that he's a monster and has forced me to make these choices. I hate my mother for staying with him, even though I can tell she's as tired of his shit as I am.

_Suck it up, Veronica_!

Reluctantly, I insert the key, turning it until the lock disengages. I open the lid slowly, studying the contents as if it were a bomb. In a sense, I suppose it is. I'm about to blow up Daddy's world.

Some of it is boring and basic: wills, which show me set to inherit everything. Zero surprise. Copies of insurance policies, including one for my life, valued at one million dollars. Curious, how they aren't eager to confirm that charred corpse in Riverdale is mine and collect. A folder catches my eye and I page through it, my interest piquing as I realize what I'm holding.

These are the sale documents for the land beneath the Twilight, Southside High, Pop's Diner… everything Daddy's snapped up in Riverdale. The pricing sucks, of course, which we knew. What interests me are the _previous_ offers, returned as rejected, for much higher amounts. I also notice the lawyer on the accepted details is not the Lodge family lawyer (Monty helped me out of a jam with an arrest for public indecency when I was sixteen and stupid).

"Who the hell is Penny Peabody?" I mutter.

Jewellery, a watch, more boring documents… _A DVD marked McCoy._

"Well, hello!"

I set that beside the real estate documents and pull out a large manila envelope marked **RJD**. Opening it, I find a series of still images that can best be described as nightmarish images of the governor's wild sexual fantasies with women and men who are most definitely _not_ his ultra-Conservative wife.

Betty was right: my father's been blackmailing the powerful in Riverdale to get his way. I think it's time to turn a few tables.

Sliding the documents and DVD into my purse, I lock the box and ring the bell as directed by James the bank dullard. He comes when called, like a dutiful puppy, eager to please. I watch him lock away the box and smile sweetly as he asks if he can help me with anything else.

"No thank you, James. Have an excellent day."

_I know I will. Now, on to phase two._

I hail a cab outside—Uber leaves a trace, after all—and head for the Park-Hyatt. Our family has never stayed there out of some odd bitterness my mother has with the Hyatt family from a fundraiser mishap in 2004, which is crucial, since I cannot afford to be outed as an imposter. My arrival is mercifully swift in the endless nightmare of New York traffic, and I enter the hotel with my head held high and my attitude at an eleven.

This part of my plan takes much more persuasion and a little foot stomping, but eventually, I'm able to convince the staff that I am Hermione Lodge, that I have been _mugged_ for my credit cards and need a room while I wait for an emergency reissue so I can fly and join my husband on a business trip in San Francisco tomorrow evening. The bank, dears that they are, have advanced me cash, and I flash enough of that to secure a modest room on the fourth floor for one night only. I'm going to lose the security deposit when I bail this afternoon, but what do I care? It's all Daddy's money anyway.

I just need a quiet space and a phone.

I could use a cell phone, but my personal phone melted in my car last week and a burner phone defeats the purpose of my plan. I want Daddy to know exactly where I am. I want him to show up here and find out the room was under my mother's name. I want him to rush to the bank just before closing, and find out what I've been up to.

I want him to panic.

I glance at my watch and smile. It's barely ten. The timing is perfect. I open the minibar fridge, smiling at the tiny bottle of premium Chardonnay. This will do nicely, I decide, along with the bar of dark chocolate. Picking up the phone, I dial his cell number and sip my wine.

"_Hiram Lodge."_

"Hello, Daddy. Miss me?"

"_Um, just give me a moment to step into my office_."

"That's hardly the enthusiastic response I expected," I quip, popping a square of chocolate in my mouth as I listen to his frantic footsteps.

A door slams and I hear my father huff into the phone. _"Mija, your mother and I have been worried sick about you! Do you have any idea what we've thought for the last week?"_

"Yes, I do. You've been thinking, 'Damn, when did my daughter get smarter than me?' Love the grieving parent act, Daddy. The single tear, if you even shed one? The stoic touch."

"_Where are you?"_ my father asks angrily. _"This isn't a time for games, Veronica."_

"No, Daddy. It isn't. And you know where I am, so stop pretending to be stupid. As we speak, you're silently directing Andre to make arrangements to pursue me. Don't bother. I'll be gone before you make it here. What you should be asking yourself is, _why am I where I am?_"

"_Fine, no more games. You want to be treated like an adult? Remember how I treat those who cross me, Veronica. It would be in your best interests to return home, immediately."_

"I'll come home when you tell me what the hell you've done with Betty and return her safely to her family!"

My father hesitates as I drain the tiny wine bottle. _"I don't know anything about Betty—_"

"Remember, Daddy: consider where I am and why I am here. Then consider changing your story. Betty is my family. And what have you always taught me about family?"

"_Mija, I am your family,"_ he pleads.

"If you hurt her? You're dead to me."

I slam down the phone and slip the chocolate in my purse for the road. Knowing my father, he'll be calling the front desk to ask for me. Tugging off my hat, I toss it aside and twist my hair into a bun at the nape of my neck. Inside my purse is a small bag containing a chin length wig, which I quickly tug into place. It doesn't have to be perfect, only enough to get down the street. It should work, especially with the cute heart-shaped sunglasses I perch upon my nose.

With a final check in the mirror, I take the stairs to the next floor up, then call the elevator for the ground floor. I stroll out of the Park-Hyatt without so much as a word from the front desk and hum happily to the Starbucks, where I order a non-fat latte and ask the barista to call a cab.

"Where to?"

"Penn Station," I reply calmly. "Ooh, can you throw in a pumpkin scone with my order?"

"Sure, miss…"

"Elizabeth Jones. Thank you so much."

I leave a fifty-dollar tip in the jar, tucked carefully beneath the ones. Good service should always be rewarded.

* * *

**Jughead: 5:05pm**

I absently bite into my now freezing cold burger as I scroll through another document in Betty's collection of files, my mind completely overloaded at this point with documents and details. This one shows a kickback trail from Hiram to the St Clairs that happens right after Dooley's amazing casino win and I'm just stunned at the audacity.

I know in the real world, most people wouldn't have all of the moving pieces like I do, but it's just so blatant, I can't believe it. The sheer hubris of it all is truly something to behold.

Betty has been thorough, and were she with me, I would be high-fiving her, singing her praises, offering to buy her an expensive dinner on the Times' dime. Her absence is palpable at moments like these, where her journalistic prowess is on full display. She's even annotated some of the PDFs with observations and connections to documents.

A triple rap on the door, followed by a slow double rap, signals the return of my new partner and I rush to the door. A quick check of the peep hole reveals Veronica Lodge, alone and bearing a bag of Krispy Kreme donuts. Sliding the chain and flipping the lock, I open the door wide.

"Are those celebratory or conciliatory donuts?"

Veronica laughs, shaking the bag. "If we were drowning sorrows, I'd have something stronger than refined sugar."

I step aside, letting her in and locking the door behind her. Veronica tosses the donuts on the dresser and lets out a low whistle at the state of the room. The bedspread is covered in papers from my safe; I have at least ten windows open on my laptop; the side table is a mess of fast food wrappers and there's a small pyramid of cans forming beside the window.

"Jughead, if you're not going to let housekeeping in, you need to clean up before we have unwanted insects," Veronica warns.

"I'll clean it tonight. Betty's files took the entire day to go through." My hand reaches inside Veronica's paper bag of treats, seizing a classic glazed goodie. "She found more than I could have imagined."

"Cliff notes, please."

I take a hurried bite of donut, chewing quickly. "Mayor McCoy was definitely being blackmailed, but more importantly, she's ready to crack. Listen to this."

Munching on my sugary snack, I pull up my playlist of audio files and click one dated 9 days ago. The sound of Sierra McCoy's voice fills the room.

"_Hey Betty, good to see you the other day. Listen, about your mother's concerns… There's more to it. Much more, that I can't get into on the phone. Can we meet up maybe, say next week? Set up a dinner with Kevin at his house, okay? I really need to talk to you. Just you._"

Veronica's eyes widen in surprise. "How did she get that?"

"Voicemail to her work phone. Looks like it was a softphone through Microsoft Lync, so the voicemail would have been emailed to her work account. Not a smart move on Sierra's part, but Betty saved it for us. She also has a few emails that Angelique forwarded her about SoDale specs that include emails from Hiram that are oddly worded. I'm assuming there are coded threats, things Sierra could explain."

Popping the last of the donut in my mouth, I switch windows to Adobe. "Long story short, I can connect unusual transfers to the St Clairs that correspond with multiple land purchases, as well as Governor Dooley's casino win. Over on the bed, I've traced the history of payments between the Blossoms and Lodge Industries that suddenly halt after Jason died."

"Anything on the prison?" Veronica asks, plucking a fritter from the donut bag.

"There's not a lot about it in Betty's documents: a reference to a 'production line' in an email, no specific site, as well as a mention in an email with Governor Dooley about their agreement regarding special candidates for a future enterprise."

Veronica frowns, picking at her donut. "Special candidates… Why do you think he's building the prison? Besides the grotesque margins for profit, of course."

"I think the Blossoms are involved in drug trafficking, and the prison plays a role in a new set-up," I reply. "I'm not sure of the exact mechanics or specifics. I was hoping you found something in the safety deposit box."

"Oh, I found some leverage, but nothing about the prison. But special candidates… If Daddy is involved in drugs—and honestly, nothing shocks me anymore—then what if his plan is to have Governor Dooley transfer cooks to his little prison to produce designer drugs?"

"That's genius, Veronica! He'd need Dooley to approve transfers, grease wheels with other governors, apply pressure on wardens… It's all about the drugs, Veronica. SoDale, the condos? Housing the staff. Keeping them happy."

"Ugh, I've lost my appetite," Veronica grumbles, sitting her dessert aside. "Let's see what my treasures add to the bigger picture."

I quickly clear the bed, eager to examine the documents she's retrieved. The first thing she hands me is a DVD, which I feed into my external drive and play on the laptop. After thirty seconds, we both squirm and agree to shut it down. It's a sex tape of Sierra McCoy and Tom Keller.

"Moving on!" I declare loudly.

"Trust me when I say you do NOT want to look in the envelope of photos," Veronica advises me. "It's the same for Dooley, only much more perverted, and with a much larger cast of characters."

Tossing the DVD on top, I gladly take her advice. "And what's all this?"

"So, here's where things get interesting: Daddy tried to buy all of the properties he bought at market value a year prior, but the owners blew him off or countered much higher. The deals were all handled by our usual lawyer," she explains, passing me the deals for the Twilight, Pop's and a strip plaza in turn. "Then, each property suffers from events that drag down the value, along with the convenient meth lab at Southside High. Check out the actual accepted deals. It's a completely different lawyer."

As I scan down the page to the solicitor's name, I feel nauseous. I know this name. I know it well. She's the defense attorney on my dad's court paperwork.

"Shit! I've got to call my dad, right now."

"What is it?"

Snatching my phone from the charger, I curse. "We have a rat. Penny Peabody? She's a Snake Charmer."

"A what?"

"She's as good as a Serpent, Veronica. Which means at least one of the Serpents is feeding Hiram intel—Dad! Are you alone?"

"_Yeah, I'm at home. What's wrong, Jug?"_

"Remember Penny Peabody?"

Across the miles, I hear my father mutter something angrily. _"She's bad news, Jughead. If you need a lawyer, you're better off going elsewhere. Serpent or not, every favour she does will cost you."_

I pace the length of the motel room, taking measured steps. "I don't need a lawyer. But Penny… Dad, is she the reason you had to do what you did?"

"_Why you gotta bring that up? I told you, I owed Hiram big for years."_

"But did she come to collect? Was she involved in any way?"

My father's tone shifts, from one of concern to deadly seriousness. _"Is she involved in this, boy?"_

"She's the lawyer on all of his dirty real estate deals for SoDale. You do the math."

"_Traitorous bitch… Jug, between you and me, I've suspected a rat among us for a while. I've been real picky about who I talk club business with. Real choosy about who watches over Alice and Archie. I knew it. But Penny's not full patch. She's a Charmer."_

"I know. So she's got an accomplice," I conclude.

"Holy shit," Veronica whispers from the bed. "Jughead, Betty and I talked about this shit at the Wyrm before we went to the Times!"

"Dad, Betty's been exposed since day one, thanks to the Serpents. We have to make this right."

"_And we will. I think I know who the rat is, and I think I know how to flush him out. Leave it with me, alright? Trust no one from the Serpents except me, Sweet Pea and Toni, you got that? I know those kids well. They're legacies, generations deep, and they're loyal."_

"Be careful, alright? We'll talk soon."

"_Love you, son."_

"Love you, too."

I hang up reluctantly, dropping the phone on the bed. "He says he's suspected a spy in the midst for a while, thinks he knows who it is."

Veronica tugs nervously on her hair, twisting it over her shoulder. "What were you asking him about? The thing he did?"

Reluctantly, I explain my father's role in the chaos Hiram Lodge has wrought upon Riverdale. Veronica, to her credit, doesn't seem to judge him for it, simply noting that her mother hates my mother, and she's not surprised her father's been holding something over FP for years. Favours are Hiram's currency of choice, as she puts it.

"What do we do now?" I ask her.

"We clean up this filthy room, and then I suggest we watch something mindless to cleanse our palettes." As I begin to protest, Veronica waves her hand in my face. "No, you listen to me. We've spent weeks hiding, snooping and running for our lives. Your father is trying to find a spy. We are waiting for my father to react to my little gambit and reveal whether he has Betty. There is nothing more we can do tonight besides write your story, and I think that you've done enough heavy lifting on that today. 90-Day Fiancé, Jughead Jones. I demand trite television and clean working conditions."

Rolling my eyes, I excavate the surfaces of the room, disposing of wrappers, boxes and cans. I even make an effort to dampen napkins with a bit of hand soap and wipe down surfaces. As my hand glides over the dresser, I stare at Betty's picture. My chest aches, my mouth sandy and dry. I'm so lost without her.

"You're in love with her," Veronica remarks sadly from behind me. "I told her so. She didn't believe me."

"Since junior high." There's no point in denial now. "Or I thought I did. That was nothing compared to… this. Now. And she's gone."

"We don't know that," Veronica insists. "But we will, as soon as Daddy calls."

I toss the dirty napkins in the trash, leaning against the wall. "You really think she could still be out there?"

Veronica's brow furrows as she hesitates. "I don't know if she's alive. If she is, she doesn't have much longer. Just thinking of Jason and when he was found… But the more I think about the crash, the way they're identifying her from a filling in a tooth? That's not Daddy. He's flashy. So either he's holding the flashy reveal back because he didn't want anyone digging into _my disappearance_—"

"Which means that now you're alive, Betty's body will show up," I mumble, suddenly nauseous.

"Or," Veronica counters loudly, "it means he has her, and my leverage will make him offer a trade. This call will give us closure, one way or another. If he's hurt her, Jug, we will destroy him. Whatever it takes. But if she's alive? This is enough to keep him from killing her until we can rescue her."

They're not great odds, but closure matters. I need answers. Even if they'll break me.

Veronica and I take turns changing in the bathroom and settle into the bed with the donuts and reality TV blaring. My somber mood is difficult to shake, but it's soon clear that Veronica is on a mission to cheer me up. Her quips about the action on screen earn soft chuckles and draw me into a baffling world on screen. The donuts definitely help buoy my spirits, if only an artificial sugar high.

"You know, I could get you a room of your own on the Times' coin," I remind her.

"And deprive you of my fabulous company? Never." Veronica laughs at the couple bickering on the TV. "He's catfishing her. Ten bucks says this dude's already married."

"Totally. Possibly a bigamist already." I steal the last donut, but decide to offer half to Veronica, who declines. "Then we should swap rooms, maybe? Something with two beds?" I suggest.

Slumping on her pillow, Veronica blushes. "Okay look, I will deny this to my dying day if you tell anyone, but I'm actually terrified right now, and sleeping with you beside me makes me feel a little safer, alright?"

Well, crap. Veronica always seems so… together. Tough. I guess I forget that she's as human as I am.

"I'm sorry, it's totally fine by me."

"Betty trusts you. Archie trusts you. So I trust you, okay?"

My hand reaches across the bed to squeeze hers reassuringly. "We're practically best friends by association," I quip.

Veronica giggles, managing a half-smile. "You're stuck with me for life, Truman."

"That goes both ways. Wait, is that guy freaking out because she's touching a car window?"

"Oh my god, what is his _damage_? If Archie ever acted like this—"

Across the room, Veronica's purse rings. She leaps up from the bed like a kid on Christmas morning to retrieve her phone and smacks the wall excitedly as she reads the display.

"It's Smithers," she hisses as she accepts the call. "Hello… Yes… Yes, I know how to reach him… I see. Have him call this number in half an hour. Thank you, Smithers."

Ending the call, she sets the phone on the bedspread with a steely look. "Looks like Daddy wants to talk to us. He won't speak to me alone."

"Why does he want to talk to me?"

"I assume he knows exactly where I've taken the items I've stolen from the safety deposit box," Veronica replies calmly. "Which means he followed my trail, as planned, and is currently pissed off in Manhattan."

"At least there's some distance between us," I grumble. "Now what?"

"We wait."

"Waiting is bullshit."

Veronica sighs, reaching for her bottle of Evian. "Co-signed. But I couldn't say I was sitting right beside you. I want Daddy to believe we're in different places. One step ahead, Truman. No room for mistakes."

"I've already made enough," I agree sadly.

"We all make mistakes, Jughead Jones. All we can do is atone and never repeat them."

I lay back and close my eyes, thinking of Betty. Is she alive somewhere? Is she dead, perhaps stuffed in the same freezer where Jason languished for days before being dumped in Sweetwater River? What am I going to say to Hiram Lodge? Who's betraying the Serpents and why the hell would they backstab my father?

So many questions remain. After precisely twenty-nine minutes, a phone rings, bringing answers.

"Let me talk until he asks for you," Veronica instructs me. "I will coach you. If he says he has Betty, we will ask for proof of life of our choosing. Think of something he can't fake. And record this!"

Swiping up on the screen, she presses the speaker phone key as I hit record on my cell's voice recorder app. "Hello?"

"_Veronica. Are you alone?"_

"Should I be?"

"_I had requested the presence of your friend, Jughead Jones. Is he with you?"_

The icy tone of Hiram's voice leaves no question in my mind: the man wants me dead.

"He's here and listening, Daddy. Now, do we understand each other after our discussion today?"

Hiram huffs angrily on the other end. _"Do I understand that my daughter has committed a crime by impersonating her mother and illegally gaining access to her property? Yes, I do."_

Of course he'll focus on that. Asshole.

"You mean, the bank staff failed to verify that the name on the ID was Hermione, not Veronica Lodge, and they are legally liable for all failings today?" Veronica replies sweetly. "What's done is done, and I know precisely what you've been up to. I'm pretty sure it's a violation of your probation, Daddy. I ask you again: where is Betty Cooper?"

"_Mija, you are testing my patience. Family loyalty only extends so far. I am making a one-time offer, so listen carefully. Your friend, Elizabeth Cooper, has illegally accessed and copied confidential, proprietary business documents from Lodge Industries. This amounts to corporate espionage. Our security system has documented what she has taken. I know who has the files now: Jughead Jones. I want the flash device they were copied to and Mr. Jones' computer, as well as my belongings from the deposit box, in exchange for Ms. Cooper. I will demand that Mr. Jones access and wipe all cloud accounts on site prior to her release."_

My heart is in my throat. _Betty's alive?_ It's been eight days… is it possible? And if she's alive, where is she? What has he done to her?

"I understand your terms. To be absolutely clear, you have kidnapped my best friend and held her against her will for eight days, and will return her if we hand over the documents and photos?"

Hiram chuckles darkly. _"I never said kidnap. I said I would trade the items for Ms. Cooper. I have not touched her, nor restrained her myself."_

"No, you just hired goons to do it," I grumble angrily.

"We want proof that Betty is alive and unharmed," Veronica demands loudly. "Or we take everything we have and make it very, very public tomorrow morning."

"_You don't trust me? Your father?"_

"Nope!"

I almost burst out laughing, but the gravity of the situation restrains me. I can hear a banging noise on the other end, soft noises that may be footsteps, a shuffling.

And then, there it is: _"Veronica? Juggie?"_

Betty's voice. She sounds exhausted, but it's _her_.

"Betty?" Veronica's hand clasps over her mouth in surprise. "B, are you okay?"

"_I'm okay. I—"_

A scraping noise. _"There, she's fine. Do we have a deal?"_

"No," I reply firmly. "That could have been a recording. I want to ask her a question."

"_Mr. Jones. Ever the journalist."_

"One question, or no deal," I insist. "Hell, I promise it has nothing to do with where you're holding her, or how she got there. I just want to ask her something you couldn't have possibly anticipated and pre-recorded."

There is a long pause on the other end, a worrying pause. Bile rises in the back of my throat as I look nervously to Veronica. _Wait_, she mouths.

"_Fine. Ask away."_

"Betts?"

"_Juggie?"_

I wish I could revel in this moment, pause and marvel at the miracle of hearing her voice again, but she's counting on me to save her—and I will. I will. With a little Nancy Drew, I hope.

"What is your favourite Nancy Drew book of all-time?"

_Come on, Betty, figure it out_. I know for a fact that she loves _Password to Larkspur Lane_ and _The Mystery at Lilac Inn_, so if she answers with anything else… It may be a clue.

"_You know I love them all, but the first one I ever read was The Hidden Staircase and you never forget your first love, do you?"_

"No, you don't," I agree hoarsely.

"_Enough talking,"_ Hiram snaps. _"Do we have a deal?"_

"We do," Veronica answers firmly. "But we'll need time to travel back to Riverdale."

"_Mija, call me tomorrow and we will arrange a time and place. Do not involve the police. Do not attempt to screw me over, or I promise you, you will never see Betty again."_

The call ends abruptly and I allow myself to break down. Veronica's arms wrap around me, hugging me tightly as I weep.

"Shh, we're going to get her back."

"I just… She's alive. I can't lose her again, Veronica."

"And we won't," Veronica vows solemnly. "We're getting her back. Now, did your question help us at all?"

Swiping away my tears, I nod. "Yeah, I think it did. That's not her favourite."

"See? I had a feeling you'd know exactly what to do, and Daddy was none the wiser. No more tears," she insists, pulling away and dabbing a few of her own.

I inhale deeply, focusing on the photos across the room. Betty, Archie, Veronica. I think of my dad, Polly, Alice, Cheryl. No time for moping. I have to stay focused.

"Okay, Veronica. You know your father better than I do. What's next?"

Gone is the soft compassion of moments prior. Gone is the laughter over reality TV. What remains is the calculated stare of a woman who will not be denied. A shiver rolls down my spine as I briefly think, _Like father, like daughter_.

Hiram Lodge is in trouble.

"Now? We get ready for war."

* * *

**Betty lives! But where has she been for the last eight days? We'll find out in the next chapter, as we rewind and find out how she came to be in the clutches of Hiram. **

**Veronica versus Hiram has been so fun to write. I'd love to hear what you think in the ol' review box below. We only have 5 more chapters to go!**


	17. Only killers call killing progress

**Betty... 8 days in the void... What has Hiram done? Where has she been? Deep breaths, we're going to rewind to the day of the (faked) car crash and show Betty's side of things, bringing her into the present timeline.**

**Chapter title taken from Black Helicopter by Matthew Good. Reminded me of Hiram so much, I had to use it.**

* * *

"**Only killers call killing progress."**

**Betty: The Day of the Car Crash (8 Days Ago)**

I stare at my closet, naked except for my bra and underwear, biting my lip so hard that I'm sure it'll bleed.

What does one wear to their last day of gathering evidence of mass corruption?

Practicality calls my name, as I consider where I've hidden my external drive and the potential need for urgent movement between offices in Lodge Industries. But the day also calls for a level of decorum. Angelique has hinted at a farewell lunch, perhaps at the swanky café Hiram loves to book for his lunch meetings. That would call for an elegant dress, the polished role of Elizabeth Cooper, ingénue intern.

Not that a skirt's ever held me back before, I think fondly, remembering last weekend.

In the end, I choose practicality: cropped pants with a sash belt, a gorgeous blue silk blouse Polly bought me for my birthday and my favourite necklace: a simple gold chain with a tiny teardrop diamond. I sweep my hair up into a ponytail, adding a slight lift in front as Cheryl always nags me to do.

"_You look like a schoolteacher when it's super flat, Betty!"_

A quick curl of the ends and I dash on light makeup with a satisfied smile. Perfect. Classy, cool, all business. Ready to take down Hiram Lodge.

I head downstairs, well ahead of schedule, and pour my morning coffee as I review my plans: arrive early and retrieve my drive; backup the last of my files; delete and purge Recycle Bin; run the cleaning program I'd purchased online that should erase the system backup showing the history of my little folder of goodies. One last snoop of the physical documents in Hiram's office, if I could manage it. Leave work early with Jughead, retrieve my suitcase from Thistlehouse and get out of town.

It's almost over.

Upstairs, I hear a door open and soft footsteps. "Polly?" I call out.

"Hey, Betty. You working today?"

"Yeah, last day. Did you want breakfast?"

Polly comes to the top of the stairs, leaning down to where I can just see her. Her hair is tangled, messy waves spiralling Medusa-like from her scalp. Yesterday's makeup is ringing her eyes.

"Um, no. Thom and I are grabbing lunch so I'll just eat some toast. Dinner tonight?"

I feel guilty, keeping so much from Polly, but it's for her protection. "Maybe? Jughead texted me last night, said something about a surprise?"

"Ooh, Jughead Jones!" Polly teases. "Far be it from me to interfere with young love."

I feel my cheeks flush as I burst into laughter. "Polly!"

"At least tell me he's cute," Polly begs. "Tell me I'm being ditched again for a hot guy."

"Says my sister, who's always out with her boyfriend?" I counter playfully. "But if you must know… He definitely grew up sexy."

"Yes! Get it, Betty! Consider me happily ditched—for now. But I want to meet him!" she sing-songed, walking away.

"You can meet him when I meet Thom!" I yell.

"Double-date! It's on!"

I'm still laughing when my cell phone rings on the kitchen counter. I answer the call, not bothering to check the display.

"Hello?"

"_Is this Betty Cooper?"_ a gruff voice asks.

"Um, who is this?"

"_A friend of FP Jones. He asked me to call you."_

I glance at the display, frowning at the blocked number. "And why didn't he call me himself?"

"_Because Jughead's been hurt. Badly. And he said you needed to be called and brought under Serpent protection immediately. As his lieutenant, that's my job."_

I grip the counter to steady myself as his words register. "Jughead… What happened to Juggie?"

"_It looks like a hit. We're not sure if he'll make it and we think you're next. Are you at home or work?"_

"I'm… I'm at home. Where are you? I'll meet you there right now," I tell him, reaching for my keys.

"_We'll come for you. It was a car bomb, Betty. They know your vehicle. I'll be there in five minutes. Listen for my honk."_

"Okay… Okay..."

The call ends and I slump to the floor, clutching the phone to my chest. A bomb… Jughead's car…

_Oh my God, that fucking monster! Hiram blew up Jughead's car! He tried to kill him… because of me_.

My grief and panic threaten to consume me, but I swallow them down. My fists curl at my sides, fingernails digging into my palms until they sting. _He will pay for this. If Jughead dies, I will kill him myself_. But first, I need to get out of here. I need to get to Jughead and be sure he's okay. I need to tell him I love him, and I will avenge him.

Outside, a car horn blares twice. I scramble to my feet, snatching my purse and keys off the counter. As I step outside, the driver's side window of the waiting grey mini-van rolls down, revealing a familiar face from my time at the Whyte Wyrm: Tall Boy.

"Betty, get in quickly."

"Wait, my sister's inside! Will she be safe here?"

Tall Boy nods. "Another car is coming to check for a bomb and take her to your mother, but my orders are to protect you. Please get in, before it's too late."

I nod furiously, rushing around to the passenger side and yanking open the door. "I can't believe this," I murmur as I slide into the seat. "When did it happen?"

"Late last night," he replies as he pulls out of the driveway. "FP didn't find him until he woke up for work and realized he was missing. Spotted what was left of the car down the road in a ditch."

"Oh my God…" I stare out through the tinted windows, my shaking fingers fumbling with my purse strap in my lap. "How bad is it, Tall Boy?"

"It's not going to end well, Betty," he says ominously. "I'm sorry."

There is a hand yanking on my hair from behind, a cloth jammed over my mouth and nose. I foolishly scream, drawing in the noxious vapors as a female voice hisses at me to shut up. My arms and legs kick, my hand scratching and clawing at the assailant. She curses, calls me a filthy bitch.

The last thing I hear is Tall Boy's voice, tinged with guilt: "Don't be so rough. I like her."

* * *

The first thing I notice is the rumbling sound beyond the concrete walls. A low, steady grumbling of the earth. It reminds me of distant construction, or something else maybe… a train?

I file it away in the back of my brain. It may help me later.

My hands are bound behind my back, tied together and further tethered to the metal railing of the chair I'm perched upon. There are no windows I can see, and one set of stairs presumably leading to a door in a far corner. I assume I'm in some sort of basement. Judging from the size of the space, this isn't a house, but a business of some kind. A single line of fluorescents overhead keep me from being lost in inky darkness.

I swallow hard, my throat like sandpaper. Whatever was used to knock me out has left me cotton-mouthed, nauseous and nursing a nasty headache. Without a window, I have no idea how much time has passed, but I assume it's been at least a few hours, but not too many, since I don't have to pee.

To my right, a screeching noise—that door needs some serious WD-40—and heavy footsteps on the stairs approach. I close my eyes halfway, feigning grogginess. Helplessness. Lulling my captor into a false sense of security.

Tall Boy rounds the corner, a bottle of water in hand. I can see a pistol tucked in his jeans. I hope the asshole shoots himself in the groin.

"You up?" he asks.

"Huh?" I mumble meekly.

He approaches me slowly, water in hand. "Come on, drink. You need to start talking."

Hmm. Drink mystery water from the guy who lied to me and drugged me? No thanks. I press my lips shut, shaking my head.

"Betty, come on. The drugs Penny gave you were strong."

"You drink it," I hiss.

Tall Boy frowns, staring at the bottle. "What, you think it's poisoned? Why would I do that?"

He seems genuinely confused at my reluctance. Fine, no more games on my part. I give him my full, angry attention, tugging on my restraints.

"Why would you kidnap and drug me? Is Jughead even hurt?"

Tall Boy glances at the stairs, as if expecting company, then leans closer. "I told you what I was supposed to. Look, there's nothing wrong with the water. I'm trying to help you, Betty. No one needs to get hurt, alright?"

"You take a mouthful first," I demand.

He takes a swig, raising his eyebrows. "There. Happy?"

"I'm tied to a chair. Of course I'm not happy! But give me the damn water."

Still wary, I only accept half of the bottle, slurping it in small sips tipped into my mouth. Tall Boy is a big guy, and maybe whatever drug it's laced with just won't affect him like it would affect me. It's not poison, and that will have to do.

As Tall Boy turns away and sets the bottle on a nearby table, I dial up the meekness in my voice once more. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because you stole something from Hiram Lodge. Something he wants returned, immediately. All you have to do is tell me where the files are, and who has a copy, and you can go home Betty."

Tall Boy's talking a good game, but he's forgetting who my sister is. I have no doubt Jason Blossom was fed similar lies before his body ended up in the river with a bullet between the eyes.

"I'm not talking about why I'm here, Tall Boy. I'm talking about why _you're_ here," I clarify. "I've known you for almost a year, and you've always been a decent guy to me at the Wyrm. FP trusts you. I trust you. Does Hiram have something on you, like he has on the mayor? Because if he does, I mean, it's not your fault if you feel trapped."

He crosses the large room slowly, retrieving a metal folding chair leaning against an empty shelving unit. He sits it down a few feet in front of me and straddles it, leaning over the back of the chair.

"Look, Riverdale is changing. You either shake hands with the devil, or he burns you to the ground. I help him find his documents, he leaves Sunnyside Park and the Serpents alone. It's survival, Betty. Nothing more than that."

I almost believe him, but he averts his gaze to the left on that last sentence. There's more to the story, but I'm going to let him believe he's fooling me.

"You just want to protect your home," I empathize. "That's all I've been doing, Tall Boy. Protecting _my _home. My family."

From my right, I hear a screeching and everything changes: Tall Boy's posture straightens; the air takes on a distinct chill; and my heart begins to race. The measured steps clanking on the metal staircase land with a sharper, firmer fall than Tall Boy's. I nervously glance at the approaching blonde, taking in her Serpent jacket, skin-tight jeans and black thigh-high boots. Her long hair hangs in wild waves around her face, framing a sinister smile.

"Blondie! You're up!"

I choose silence, sensing Penny is someone who loves the sound of her own voice. Penny makes her way to Tall Boy's side, patting his left shoulder.

"You tell her what we want?"

"Yup."

"And?"

"We hadn't gotten farther than that, yet," he replies cagily.

Penny rolls her eyes, making her way towards me. Her right hand reaches out, caressing my cheek with a softness that suggests she is looking for my weakest point, more than seeking to soothe.

"Never send a man to do a woman's job, right Betty?" Penny coos. "Now, as my friend has explained, you have something our employer wants. Something you've stolen from him. Now, he will be happy to forget all about that if you cooperate."

Penny grabs my chin, a violent, rough hold, and forces me to meet her icy gaze.

"Because if you don't cooperate, Betty, I might just have to think of ways to convince you to cooperate. And I can be very, very persuasive. Do we understand each other?"

I reluctantly nod, fighting back the bile rising in my throat.

"Excellent!" Penny releases my chin, shoving my face back hard enough to rock the chair. "So, now we understand each other, tell us: where are the files you stole?"

The irony of the situation is that I haven't stolen them—not really. I've copied them, and backed some of them up to my cloud drive. But most of them are still taped to a shelf inside Lodge Industries. Not that I plan to tell them that.

"I haven't stolen any files," I reply (sort of) truthfully.

Tall Boy grimaces, shaking his head as Penny slaps her palms against the table. "The dumb blonde routine won't work with me, Betty. Hello, do you see my hair? We have proof that you have copied hundreds of files to an external drive. _Where is it_?"

I try another tack. "You have proof that the files were gathered, which they were as part of my ongoing duties. If they were backed up and copied to an external drive, I had no part in that. I want to help you, but I don't know anything!"

I can't tell if it's the lingering effects of the drugs, or if she's simply that lethal, but Penny's fist connects with my left cheek before I even realize her arm's in motion. I yelp in pain as it connects, my teeth clacking together from the force. Penny laughs, flexing her fingers slowly.

"Figure it out, Blondie. That's just a preview. Watch her. I have business to take care of."

I hold my head high, remain defiant as Penny storms up the stairs. Tall Boy watches her retreat, fidgeting with the water bottle on the table. As the heavy metal door shuts behind her, he shakes his head.

"You don't want to get on her bad side," he warns me.

"Why not? She's already on mine."

* * *

**Betty: 6 Days Ago**

The days quickly blur together. I think it's the second day when they move me from the chair to a bed with a metal frame—after drugging me again, of course. Each limb is chained to a respective post, but I have enough room to flex my knees and keep circulation in my legs. My only respite is four bathroom breaks a day, with the barrel of a gun pressed to my head as I shuffle there and back in shackles.

The routine sets in: Tall Boy plays Good Cop, sweetly trying to talk me out of the files, with Penny barging in several times a day to smack me around and demand answers. Someone should tell her I used to be a cheerleader. Bruises don't bother me.

My captors also don't seem to realize I can hear their conversations upstairs. Snippets of words carry to my eager ears, none of them comforting: searches; car crashes; ransacking houses and offices. Something about Jughead being untouchable, which reassures me greatly. Late at night, when I dare to sleep, I think of his smile, hear his voice in my ear, telling me to keep going.

On what I think is the third day, everything changes.

I'm eating a grilled cheese sandwich, having been granted the privilege of one longer chain to work with, when the screeching door opens. My brow furrows in confusion, as Tall Boy has left for Serpent business only minutes prior and Penny is seated across from me, sharpening her pocket knife in yet another attempt to intimidate me. The footsteps I hear are new: softer, more reserved. A third person. I sit my food aside, studying Penny's reaction to the visitor. Her amusement alarms me.

One step, another, then another and the visitor is in view: Hiram Lodge.

_Shit_.

"Hello, Betty."

"Mr. Lodge," I reply quietly.

Hiram crosses the room slowly, pausing to greet Penny before returning his attention to me. His piercing gaze unsettles me more than it ever has and for the first time, I am truly terrified. He eyes my dishevelled clothing with visible disdain and rebukes Penny for allowing me to become _filthy_.

"I'm certain you know why I'm here."

"I do, but Mr. Lodge, there's been some sort of mistake. I haven't taken any of your files out of your office. I have no idea why you think I have, but I haven't."

My words are sincere, but carefully chosen. I'm hoping Veronica has collected the drive by now. I may have intended to remove them, but I haven't done so.

Hiram clucks his tongue at me, visibly impatient. "Betty, my computer system is well protected. I know what happens to every single file. There is a drive containing hundreds of confidential documents. Where is it?"

"If someone copied files, I had nothing to do with it! Please, I just want to go home," I beg.

Hiram takes another step forward, now so close he could grab me by my throat, if he so chose. He leans down, his face inches from mine, as he speaks in a guttural tone.

"You may think you can outlast me, or Penny. You may think you can wait to be saved. But no one is coming for you, Betty. As far as the world is concerned, you're dead already. And if you don't start talking, I'll make it a reality."

_What is he talking about?_

"I see you don't believe me. Allow me to show you where I've been this evening."

Hiram reaches inside his blazer pocket and retrieves his cell phone. With a few quick taps on the screen, he pulls up a clip from the local news station and hits the Replay button.

This is how I find out that my best friend and I died in a car accident three days ago.

The footage of Veronica's car is horrifying: the smoke billows high into the sky and if I look closely, I can see the silhouette of a body inside the car. The footage cuts away to a photo of us from last Christmas, smiling in front of the tree at Thistlehouse. I remember the photo: Archie had taken it, after we'd had way too much spiked egg nog.

_Archie! Oh God, and Jughead!_

The footage cuts away to a gathering in the town square, where Sheriff Minetta is speaking on a microphone. Behind him stands Hiram, Hermione and my mother, looking pale and so very fragile. My heart aches at the sight of her.

"This can't be real…"

But it is, and as the footage pans to the audience, I see Archie's grief-stricken face and know Veronica is dead. My fabulous, fierce friend, the one who'd taught me to stand up for myself and never back down. She was gone, and Hiram was standing here, _smirking_ about it.

"You _killed your daughter_?" I scream. "How could you?"

"I never said that," Hiram replied firmly. "But Veronica is gone, and we've made sure the world thinks you've gone with her. You're alone here, Betty. Your only way out is to give me what I want."

"Fuck you, you child murdering bastard!"

"Have it your way," Hiram hisses. "Penny? No food for her tomorrow."

"With pleasure," Penny chirps, waving her knife at me.

I will myself not to cry in his presence, or hers. I choke down my sandwich, knowing food will be denied after this. It is only when Tall Boy returns and Penny leaves that I surrender to my grief, curling onto my side and sobbing loudly.

* * *

**Betty: 5 Days Ago**

The thing about being held captive is that it gives you a great deal of time to think. Enough time to realize a few things.

Jughead is a journalist. More importantly, he is as dogged as I am. I've worked with him for weeks. I've seen it. That news clip Hiram showed me revealed a very important detail: the police have only recovered one body from the wreck.

Jughead will not accept Minetta's word that I am dead. No way. He'll want a body, with DNA confirmation. Which means someone in the world _is_ looking for me.

Penny cuts off my food, but Tall Boy brings me water when she leaves. Today is the day Penny decides that carving a jagged line into my thigh will be motivation to speak, but she backs out last minute when I insist I'll join Veronica in the grave before telling her something I simply don't know.

I wish I'd told someone besides Veronica where I hid that drive. Maybe she told Archie before the crash. Maybe it's for the best if she didn't.

* * *

**Betty: 3 Days Ago**

I can hear them talking upstairs. Tall Boy is angry. Something about Jughead being gone, and Hiram being pissed he can't find him. Maybe he's found the files. Maybe he's writing his story.

But if he does, will Hiram kill me? Or will he set me free, defeated?

They feed me enough to survive, but my stomach aches from hunger. A granola bar here, a bite of sandwich there. It's not enough to satiate. Sometimes, it's easier to pass out. It's easier to fade away into my mind, where Jughead waits for me. He holds me close, shields me from Penny's angry hands. We argue about books, or talk about music we love. It's peaceful there.

It's Jughead who gives me hope for Veronica.

"_Veronica said her parents would never kill her, remember? Maybe they're keeping her somewhere, just like you. Maybe they want you to think she's dead, to break you."_

Anything's possible. They're lying to the world about me. I'm alive, right? At least, I think I still am. This isn't so much living as surviving, but it's what I will do.

"Feel like talking today, Blondie?" Penny sneers.

"Feel like going to hell?" I reply sweetly.

She slaps me hard and I thank her. I haven't had a coffee in days. A girl's gotta stay awake somehow.

"Your friends will all die, one by one," Penny snarls. "That Archie kid is next on my list. The moment we can get him away from the goddamn Serpents, he's dead. Because of you. Maybe I'll bring him here and do it right in front of you. Would you like that, Betty?"

I don't give her the satisfaction of an answer. Instead, I will my weary mind to remember that the Serpents are watching over Archie, which is good… except that Tall Boy is a Serpent.

_Oh Jughead, please figure it all out. Please find me soon_…

* * *

**Betty: 3:37pm**

"What do you mean, you can't get to him?" Penny shouts.

"FP won't let me near any of them," Tall Boy gripes, following her down the stairs. "Keeps telling me he's counting on me to watch over the Wyrm."

"We need more leverage, now!" Penny storms across the room, kicking the frame of my bed. "You. Wake up!"

I crack one eye open, exhausted from not having been fed for two days? Maybe three? My vision blurs as I take in her furious expression and Tall Boy's frustrated look.

"Can I help you?"

Her hand wraps around my hair, jerking me up to a seated position. "Where are the _fucking files?_"

"Penny, if you want me to think, you need to _feed my brain cells before they die_," I grumble.

My head collides with the frame of the bed as she releases me and turns to Tall Boy. "I'll get this needy bitch a sandwich. Watch her!"

"Extra mayo," I mumble. "I like mayo."

"Go to hell!" Penny hisses, storming up the stairs.

I close my eyes, the fluorescent lights far too violent. Beside me, I can hear Tall Boy pacing.

"Why can't you just tell her what she needs to know? Why do you have to piss her off?"

"It's a gift," I mutter. "Let me sleep."

"I hate when she gets rough. This wasn't supposed to be like this. He told me you'd talk. That you were a scared kid. This wasn't supposed to be like this…"

Squinting an eye open, I stare at a conflicted biker pacing beside my smelly body. "You could let me go. Put an end to it."

"You know I can't do that."

"Worth a shot. What about a change of shirt and some baby wipes? I reek, Tall Boy. You can't tell me I don't smell like a jock strap. I was a cheerleader. I know what those smell like. This is it."

He chuckles heartily, leaning against the wall. "Alright, let me see what I can do."

"Thank you."

Ten minutes later, I have one free hand, wet paper towels dabbed in pink industrial hand soap and a men's undershirt that's a little too big, but it'll do. I strip off what was once a stunning blouse from my sister and scrub off the worst of the grime, as Tall Boy is kind enough to turn his back. The exertion, however, knocks me flat. Tall Boy cuffs my free hand without an iota of resistance.

At least I don't want to gag when my arms lift now.

When Penny returns, I sense a shift in her attitude. Gone is her cocky swagger, her _I'm going to kill you any minute_ sass. She tosses a paper bag at me and pulls Tall Boy into the far corner, speaking in hushed words. I focus on my sandwich—turkey with, hey, extra mayo!—but strain to hear what she's saying.

I make out a few words: _complication; call; New York; Veronica_.

I take a large bite of sandwich and chew happily. Veronica? Is it possible? Was dream Jughead right?

"So now what?" Tall Boy asks.

"Hiram says he's handling her."

I burst out laughing, unable to help myself.

In high school, there were two assholes on the football team who thought it would be funny to take photos of drunk girls at parties and add captions implying they'd done sexual favours for the team on Instagram. Veronica had helped take them down. I remember her determination, the way she'd entered the newspaper office.

"_We're going full dark, no stars on these bastards,"_ she'd told me.

It became our catchphrase, our battle cry of no mercy. _Full dark, no stars_.

"What's so funny, Blondie?"

"I was just thinking to myself that if Veronica is back from the dead, it means she faked out her parents with that crash." At Penny's surprised look, I smirk. 'Oh, you think I don't hear 90% of your conversations? Anyway, if Veronica pulled that off, it means she's coming after Hiram. It means she's gone full dark, no stars."

I take a bite of my sandwich, chuckling as I chew. "I almost feel sorry for you," I taunt them.

* * *

**Tall Boy, you RAT.**

**Poor Betty has been through hell, but she's tough. Will Veronica and Jughead find her in time? What scheme will they concoct next? It's time for a little war in the next chapter and as you've noticed, I'm posting more often because I've drafted everything but the epilogue now! Once the story is finished, I'll try and post every 2-3 days until it is ALL YOURS. 4 more parts to go.**

**If there's anything you're hoping to see in the last chapters, any unanswered questions about Hiram's schemes, Betty and Jughead, anything at all, now's the time to leave a review so I can make sure I've covered it. There's a lot still to come in the final chapters, but I don't want to disappoint you. **


	18. Glory under dangerous skies

**Bad-ass, sassy Betty... It's surprising that even when tortured, she's able to stay tough and sharp-tongued. Her faith in Jughead is that incredible. Shall we see if it pays off?**

**Chapter title is taken from "Glory Under Dangerous Skies" by Moist, a really beautiful song that suits our Bughead duo in their fight against evil. **

* * *

"**Glory under dangerous skies"**

**Jughead**

We meet in Newark at five, in a parking lot for a mom and pop mechanic outfit that's closed on Sundays. Veronica and I arrive first, waiting impatiently in my Jetta while blaring a playlist Veronica's made for our mission. The first bikes rumble into the lot as Lorde sings that _they used to shout my name, now they whisper it_.

That's Veronica, now. The society girl, turned calculating and cold.

My father pulls up beside us, joined by Sweet Pea, Toni, and a handful of older Serpents. Old timers, guys who came up through the ranks with my dad. Guys he can trust. I turn off the music and roll down the window, reaching my fist out to bump my father's.

"Hey, Dad. It's really good to see you. Hey Toni, Pea."

"I'm glad to see you safe, boy. You too, Veronica."

"How's Archie?" she calls out across the car.

"He's fine, physically. But we need to get you home to him. He's struggling without you," Dad admits to her.

Veronica's eyes skirt the floorboards. "That makes two of us."

Glancing at my phone, I grimace. "We don't have a lot of time before this call. What have you been able to figure out on your end?"

My Dad walks me through the digging he's done into the members of the Serpents that have drawn his suspicions in recent months. Two of them were caught selling Fizzle Rocks and are being kicked out after our rescue mission. Tall Boy has been increasingly evasive and absent around the Wyrm, while also suggesting he be tasked with _important duties_ like _protecting Andrews_.

"Our story today is our affiliate club in Buffalo is being raided tonight and we're helping them move their contraband to a safe house," Dad continues. "I figure Tall Boy will assume I'm meeting with you."

So far, so good. "And Tall Boy?"

"In charge of the Wyrm," Dad replies. "Being tailed by Fangs and Icebox. Now, what you told us about Betty's clue? I think we have it narrowed down."

_The Hidden Staircase_. Betty's answer to my question. After poring over the plot summary, I noticed that Nancy's father is imprisoned in a home near a river, and kidnapped from a train station nearby. I'd told my father to pursue possible locations below ground or in basements near Sweetwater River or the train tracks.

"Really?"

He passes me a photocopied map of the Southside. A two-block area on the southwestern side is circled in red.

"There are two large factories in that area that are closed down," he explains. "Deserted. Both close enough to the tracks that Betty would hear a train. One's closer to the river than the other. Both far enough from houses and open businesses that no one would hear her yell for help."

A chill runs up my spine at the thought.

Veronica takes the map from my hand, studying it closely. "We need to call Daddy soon. Do we think Tall Boy will go there tonight?"

"He always disappears in the evening," my dad tells her. "We should have a lead on him in a few hours."

"Hmm… So maybe we tell my father we meet tomorrow at noon? Hopefully strike by midnight?"

My father glances at the Serpents, who nod their approval. "Yeah, I think we can do that. We'll make sure Polly spends the night with Alice. Make it easy to keep watch on the families. You think you can talk Cheryl into joining them, Toni?"

Tossing her magenta hair over her shoulder, Toni nods firmly. "I'll tell her I have club business and need her safe. She knows something isn't right about the crash. She says it's as dirty as her brother's murder. She'll listen to me."

Of course Cheryl gets it. Jason was her twin brother, and the reason she united her cousins underneath the roof of Thistlehouse. A part of me thinks she knew Betty and Polly might be in danger and she believed she could somehow protect her cousins. If so, Cheryl was surely taking Betty's "death" to heart.

Veronica nudges my arm. "Did you tell your father what I offered?"

"No, because I wasn't comfortable with it," I hiss.

Rolling her eyes, Veronica leans over me. "Do you need more weapons to protect yourselves for this raid? Because trust me, Daddy will have armed guards watching Betty, and I don't just mean Tall Boy. We need heat."

My father huffs, shaking his head. "We have a few weapons."

"Get more," Veronica snaps. "I'm not joking. They will have assault rifles. Silencers on their pistols. The works. If you know where to shop, I'm buying."

Her hand tilts her purse, flashing the contents for my father to see. A rolled wad of bills lies on top. He whistles low, acknowledging the sum.

"Alright, I know someone on the way home. We'll grab reinforcements and meet you two in Greendale at eleven tonight. You'll need to ditch your car, get in one of ours—"

Inside Veronica's purse, her burner phone rings. She holds up a hand, glancing at the display.

"It's him! Noon, right?"

"Yes. Everyone keep quiet. Betty's life depends on it," I plead.

Veronica answers the call, speaking in hushed tones. "Hello… Yes, Daddy. Yes, we have everything…. We are still travelling. No, we won't be able to make it to Riverdale today… Can you blame me for getting as far from you as possible, given that you kidnapped my best friend and have threatened to kill her? I'm driving a long way… Jughead, if we drive until late tonight, what time do you think we can make it to Riverdale tomorrow?"

I hesitate, playing along. "Um… few hours tomorrow… High noon seems right for a showdown. Or do you have a lunch meeting, Hiram?"

Veronica glares at her phone as she listens to her father. "No, tonight is out of the question. I'm not meeting you and your goon squad in darkness. You raised me in your mafia world, Daddy. The best we can do is maybe nine in the morning, and that's if we barely sleep…Sunrise?!" Veronica glances at me, clearly panicked. "You want us to drive all night and meet you defenseless? That doesn't sound like good faith."

My father waves wildly outside the car and I tap her shoulder, pointing to him. _Sunrise is fine_, he mouths. _Say yes_.

"Fine!" she snaps. "But don't be surprised if I show up furious. I'll call you at five for meeting directions."

Ending the call, Veronica curses angrily in Spanish—or at least, I assume she's hurling obscenities. My father's expression is steely calm, the Serpents equally unfazed.

"I know we're aiming for midnight, but are you sure this will work. Dad?"

Adjusting his leather jacket, my father turns over the engine of his bike, revving the motor. "Six hours to infiltrate a factory? Don't insult us, Jug. Veronica, we'll take that cash."

I pass him the roll of bills, which he carefully tucks in a hidden inner pocket with a zipper. His gloved hand grips my shoulder through the window, squeezing gently.

"Eleven. Greendale Mall. West Doors. Wear all black."

Veronica and I watch as the gang pulls out of the lot in a neat V formation, my father in the lead. My stomach is a mess of knots, the fear of failure looming large. I don't trust Hiram. I won't believe that Betty is safe until I see her.

"What now?"

"We grab dinner, and double-check my fake cloned computer and fake iCloud account one more time," I reply. "Not that I intend for us to go the trade route, but I'm glad we're ready for it."

"And Daddy paid."

"He's going to pay for a lot more than a Macbook Pro when I'm through with him," I mutter, turning over the engine.

_Hold on, Betty. We'll be there soon._

* * *

I'm sitting in a beaten-up van with tinted windows, parked a block away from what was once a factory for producing cleaning chemicals. The location: a sprawling building beside Sweetwater River, a short distance from the train tracks where twice a day, cargo trains bustle through.

Betty came through for us. The tail on Tall Boy confirmed my dad's hunch, but she knew exactly what she was telling me when she answered my question.

_I hope your brilliant brain is keeping you safe in there_.

Fangs and Ice Box have run recon, and it's more than we anticipated, although not impossible to overcome. We've learned that Hiram's hired a little help from a rival gang, the Ghoulies. Dad informs me they do most of the Fizzle Rock dealing in Riverdale, and they've been pushing for more turf lately—and getting violent about it.

There are three entrances to the building, each guarded by two Ghoulies who are visibly armed. In the hour we've been watching, we've counted at least five other Ghoulies roaming in and out, along with Tall Boy and, we assume, Penny. Veronica is convinced that one of Hiram's personal guards will be watching Betty, but I think she's wrong. Maybe at six, when Hiram's expecting us, but not now.

Ten of us, at least thirteen of them. I'm rusty with a gun and Veronica says knows her way around the Smith & Wesson she's packing, but she could be all bravado. Not the best odds, but if we take out the perimeter guards quietly, it's eight seasoned Serpents versus seven and I like those odds better.

Plans are made, a flurry of hushed talk. A droning of voices, thrumming loudly in my skull. I close my eyes, conjuring up an image of Betty. The reason I'm walking into proverbial fire. I have to remain calm. I have to trust in my father and his allies, this chosen team of elite Serpents he assures me will save her, or die in the attempt.

"Jug?"

"Hmm?"

"You're with me," my father orders me, leaving no room to argue.

Three entrances: north, south and west. North seems to be the busiest, and we decide to strike it last. Toni and Sweet Pea take the south entrance, while Crusher and Torque, two of the older Serpents, hit the west. Two other Serpents circle southwest, ready to aid either team, while we edge towards the north doors. I can't keep all of the names straight, and I don't need to. I'm with my dad, Veronica and Toxin, the former lieutenant to my grandfather. He seldom steps foot outside of the Wyrm for club business, my dad told me, but Tall Boy and Penny's betrayal piqued his interest.

"He insisted he be part of this ride," Dad told me earlier tonight. "Said he owed Penny for something years ago."

We watch the Ghoulies outside the west doors as they joke around, oblivious to our operation. Distantly, I hear a faint shuffle—a sound of scuffle—but if they hear it, they're not concerned. My heart is pounding, my palms clammy and I swipe them on my jeans. In my periphery, I see Crusher and Torque, smirking and circling into the treeline.

"West is good," I whisper.

"South is too," Dad replies.

"How do you know?"

He jerks his head to the left, where Toni and Sweet Pea lurk behind a parked pick-up truck. I swallow hard, reaching for my pistol, but his hand slaps against my chest.

"You and Veronica will enter with me. Everyone else will go in, clean out the Ghoulies. Toxin, you got this?"

"With pleasure," the burly redhead growls low.

Toni wolf whistles from behind the truck, startling the posted Ghoulies at the north entrance. As they step away from the doors, two more peer outside.

"What the hell was that?" a scrawny teen in a grey hoodie asks.

"Fucked if I know!" the broad shouldered Ghoulie closer to the door replies.

"So find out!"

"I would, if you would _shut the fuck up!_"

"Amateurs," FP mutters under his breath, watching the scene unfold. "You two, follow me quickly."

The distraction has separated the Ghoulies and left the door ajar: one Ghoulie has wandered behind the truck and is been swiftly handled by Sweet Pea and Toni; one is walking towards a similar fate; and two are standing outside the door, oblivious to the approach of Toxin and Crusher. As we round the building towards the west entry, we find two unconscious and zip-tied Ghoulies beside an unlocked door.

"Stay behind me, and do not hesitate to fire."

My father yanks open the door, glancing inside quickly before ushering us inside. Glancing around the abandoned factory, I'm startled to find the Serpents in a full-on brawl with the Ghoulies. Our entry has thankfully gone unnoticed, which I suspect was the plan. We dart to the right, following an extended corridor towards the southern side of the building.

"Fangs' dad used to work here. Basement is back this way," Dad explains.

I'm stunned. I've always known my father was smarter than most gave him credit for, myself included, but this level of intelligence gathering… I never expected it. I also didn't expect the basement access door to swing open as we approached, revealing Tall Boy, furious and clutching a revolver.

"FP Jones," the hulking biker growls. "I had a feeling you'd go and fuck everything up for all of us. Just like you've been doing for years."

"Betty Cooper is the girlfriend of a Legacy, Tall Boy. That means she's as good as a Serpent. You holding her here is a violation of Serpent law," FP utters menacingly. "You hand her over to me right now, and we can walk away from this and talk."

Tall Boy rolls his neck, pointing his gun at my father's forehead. In his eyes is a cold rage, a complete disregard for him as a human being, let alone a brother in arms. It's horrifying.

"Your time as king should have ended long ago."

Raising my gun, I aim it between his eyes. "Funny fact about the Jones family, Tall Boy. I'm a better shot than my dad. Put your gun down before I put _you_ down."

I'm bluffing, but only slightly: I'm as good a shot as my dad, and we're both deadly accurate. The distraction, however, serves its purpose: my father tackles Tall Boy, knocking his gun loose and driving him away from the basement. I push through the steel door and run down the steps, weapon drawn and searching, my eyes coming to rest on the alarming sight of an angry blonde in a Serpent jacket pressing the barrel of a gun to Betty's temple.

Her hair is tied up in a messy ponytail, her face pale and dirty. Bruises mar her cheeks and arms, her porcelain skin mottled in purples and yellows. She is terrified and weary, but she is alive. Betty is still alive.

_Save her!_

"Same messy hair, same smug look… You must be a Jones," the blonde sneers.

"Serpent jacket, stupid enough to work for Hiram Lodge and backstab your own. Must be Penny Peabody," I reply. "Jig is up, Penny. Time to let Betty go."

"Really, kid? That's your big pitch? Let her go because I said so?" Penny laughs darkly, dragging Betty behind a large metal table. "No way. You will hand over the files Blondie gave you, I will collect my payday and take off to beaches unknown."

I take a cautious step forward, my weapon trained on Penny. I can't get off a clean shot, not without risking Betty, but I'll take one if I have no other choice.

"Do you really think Hiram's going to pay you? He double-crosses everybody. Or kills them, when he's done with their services. Was he ever going to let Betty go in the morning? Was he going to let me go, Penny?" I shake my head at her hesitation. "Exactly. So what makes you think that Hiram Lodge, a mob-connected scumbag who's been to jail once, would dare risk you blackmailing him later?"

The gears are starting to turn, but Penny keeps her gun pressed tight against Betty's head. Betty whimpers as Penny drags her closer, her legs buckling beneath her.

"At least let her sit while we talk, Penny," I plead. "Look at her. She's not a threat to you."

"No, she's not. Not anymore," Penny replies smugly.

With a rough kick to Betty's shin, she shoves her into a folding chair and trains her gun on the back of Betty's head. "Stay there, Blondie. If you move, I shoot Romeo first and make you watch."

"No, don't hurt him," Betty mumbles.

"She won't hurt me, Betts," I reassure her. "Because Penny is starting to realize that she's screwed. Hiram is never going to pay her. He already got what he needed from her: her services on the real estate deals on the Southside."

"There's more he needs me for. You're nothing but a stupid kid, thinking because you've seen a few pieces, you understand the whole. Get back to the kiddy table, Jughead Jones. This is grown-up business."

"You made it my business when you kidnapped the woman I love," I snarl, stepping closer. "I'm a Legacy. More than that, I'm the goddamned son of the Serpent King and you fucked me over. You conspired to overthrow the leader of the Serpents. Hiram is _done with you_ and you have no one to protect you now, Penny. You're a dead woman walking."

Penny's jaw falls open soundlessly as the basement door swings open with a squeal. Our heads swing in unison as Veronica bursts inside, struggling with a Ghoulie who shoves her down the metal staircase. She cries out angrily as she tumbles down the steps, her leg landing awkwardly. I hear the sickening _crack_ at the bottom and know it's broken. Her hand flies up, firing a bullet into his shoulder in retaliation.

"You son of a bitch!"

The Ghoulie wails, clutching his arm as he staggers backwards and hits the ground. In the confusion, I notice that Penny's gun has lowered from Betty's head—and Betty is looking at me intently.

_Now?_ she mouths.

Before I can reply, a whirring motion sails across my field of vision and Penny hits the ground, shrieking in pain. Her gun falls from her hand, skirting across the factory floor in my direction.

"Now!" I shout.

Betty hurries towards me as I glance up to my left, eyes widening at the sight of a beaming Toni Topaz. I follow her proud gaze to a fallen Penny Peabody, clutching the handle of a knife buried deep inside her abdomen.

"You should leave that in," Toni shouts. "If you pull it, you'll bleed out and die. Painfully. Actually, go ahead. Pull it out, _bitch_."

My arms fold around Betty's shuddering frame as she reaches me, her hands clasping tightly around my neck. My gaze is locked on Penny, unwilling to take any chances, as I gently walk us towards the stairs.

"Juggie, you found me," she whispers.

I hug her closer as Penny wails in agony, having made the mistake of pulling on Toni's knife. "You helped me find you."

"I knew you'd get it. _The Hidden Staircase_. The train…"

At the foot of the stairs, we meet Toni and Veronica, the latter gritting her teeth as she leans on the Serpent for support. It doesn't stop her from kissing Betty's grimy cheek.

"Oh B, I'm so sorry!"

"Sorry? You helped rescue me, V." Betty's hand untangles from my neck to touch Veronica's cheek. "I'm so glad you're not dead. Your father showed me a video…"

"I fooled everyone, except Truman," Veronica muses. "He's a good one, B."

"Jughead!"

Relief washes over me as my father appears at the top of the stairs. "Dad! Everyone okay?"

"Yeah, boy. What happened to Veronica?"

"Some Ghoulie asshole shoved me down the stairs. Don't worry, I shot him," she replies casually. "A little help, Mr. Jones?"

"You shot him…" FP laughs, glancing down the hall. "SWEET PEA! CRUSHER! I NEED A HAND HERE!"

I nudge the magenta-haired Serpent beside me, my gaze still fixed on the grumbling blonde with a knife in her gut. "Toni, can you watch Penny? I need to get Betty out of here."

"Of course, Jug. It's so good to see you, Betty," she adds warmly.

"Thanks, T," Betty replies softly.

We slowly make our way up the steps, my arm wrapped around Betty's waist to keep her stable. Her head leans into my body, her eyes lulling half-shut as she mumbles to herself. Fragments of words and thoughts, some of them I catch—_safe; scared; dream_. Her collarbones are jutting beneath the ratty top she wears, and my chest aches. Have they not been feeding her?

As we step outside, the fresh air is such a shock, she nearly collapses in my arms. I scoop her up, cradling her close as I walk her to the van. Torque is already waiting, wrapping up a cut on his arm. He opens the rear doors, helping me ease her into the backseat.

"Do we have anything to eat?"

Torque pops the glove box and hands me a Snickers bar. "Better than nothing. We can grab some Pop's."

I sit beside her, cradling her against me. "Betts? You need to eat this, okay?"

Her head lolls towards me, eyes squinting beneath the van's interior lights. "Hmm?"

"Eat, baby."

Her eyes open wider, staring at the chocolate bar like a child on Christmas morning. "Food?"

I unwrap the bar, placing it in her shaking hand. "Been a while?"

"Yesterday, I think?" She takes a large bite, humming happily. "That's good…"

"We'll get you more food," I promise her, grimacing as I notice the deep bruises on her wrists. "Jesus, what did they do to you?"

"Chains," she replies around a mouthful of chocolate. "I'm okay, Jug."

"I'm going to kill them."

I've never been a violent person, but I mean it. I want to kill them both for what they've done to her. Starvation, chains, bruises. She's been tortured.

"It doesn't matter," she murmurs.

"They _hurt you_."

Betty swallows her last bite of chocolate. "But I'm safe now. With you. Veronica… She gave you the files, right?"

"Yeah."

"Is the story done?"

"Almost. But—"

Burrowing into my side, Betty's arm stretches around my waist. "Then we won."

My arm wraps around her shoulder, tugging her closer. "I guess we did."

Impulsively, I kiss the top of her head. Testing the limits, now that the story is all but done. Now that the lie is no longer relevant. Betty hums happily, an unknown tune.

"Juggie?"

"Yeah, Betts?"

Her voice is small and quiet, her question tentative. "Don't let go of me, please?"

As if I could. "I won't, Betts."

"Because I'm afraid this is a dream and I'm still trapped in there," she continues, a tear sliding down her cheek. "But I'm so tired, and I want to sleep. So can you hold me? So I know you're really here?"

"You're safe now, Betts. I've got you." I gently brush away her tears, kissing her forehead softly. "I'm not letting anyone hurt you, not ever again. You can sleep. I'll be here when you wake up."

She drifts off quickly, to my relief. She's still sound asleep as the rest of the Serpents emerge, with Tall Boy and Penny in tow. My father returns to the van along with Veronica, carried by Sweet Pea and Crusher.

"Torque, Veronica's going to the hospital. Sweet Pea and Crusher, I want you two to stay posted on her. I'll change guard as soon as we deal with the traitors. Toni's coming with you, Jug. Get Betty to the Wyrm. She'll help you get her cleaned up and changed. There's a small apartment space above the bar. Stay there until I get back."

"Penny and Tall Boy tortured Betty," I growl. "I want to come with you. I need to make them pay."

"No boy, you need to let the Serpents deal with them for betraying their own," my father insists firmly.

"Dad, look at her wrists!"

I, too, am looking at them. I'm seeing more than bruises, now. There are scrapes and scabs, no doubt from Betty tugging desperately on her restraints, looking for a way out. They chained her up for almost ten days, left her dirty, denied her food. They deserve _pain_.

My father's hardened stare leaves no room for protest. "We have our ways of dealing with traitors, Jughead. Trust me, they will get _exactly_ what they deserve, especially Penny. Your job is to take care of her and take down Hiram."

"They weren't feeding her. She's lost weight."

"I know, Jug." My dad leans in close to me, whispering in my ear. "But there are lines I'm not letting you cross. I will handle this for you. Take care of Betty. That's what she needs you to do. I will take care of them. That's what you need _me _to do."

Betty murmurs in her sleep, her hand fisting in my shirt, and I know he's right. She comes first. I've grown up in this world. I know that Penny and Tall Boy will not be dealt with lightly. My anger will have to be sated through faith in my father's words.

Glancing down at Betty, FP smiles fondly. "You always were sweet on her. Looks like she's pretty sweet on you."

"Maybe? I don't know. She's tired, Dad, and we've been friends since we were little…"

My father rolls his eyes, stepping backwards. "Book smart, stupid everywhere else. I'll meet you at the Wyrm, Jug."

Glancing down at the sleeping woman curled up around me, I reluctantly accept that maybe, just maybe, Veronica and my dad might be right.

* * *

**Ahh, victory!**

**The Serpent army has come through, especially Toni, and Veronica is NOT to be messed with. Don't people know that by now? Bughead is together again and our Jug is in Fluffy Protector mode. Swoon.**

**We have two more chapters, plus an epilogue, and they're ALL COMPLETELY DRAFTED. I'll dish them out as fast as I can edit them. Will Hiram pay for his crimes? Will Jughead's story see the light of day? Are these two gonna cop to their damn feelings and make out already? And WHAT HAPPENED BEFORE JUGHEAD MOVED AWAY? Answers are COMING.**

**Hit review, say hi. Reviews feed edits!**


	19. I never had someone like you

**I'm so happy you liked the last chapter! Our women were bad-ass, taking out Ghoulies and Penny. And thank you for the compliments on Jughead and FP. While this fic hasn't focused on that relationship as much as say, Gaslight (my season one AU), I do care a lot about it and wanted to give them moments of bonding.**

**SO. No more fake dating. No more hostage situation. Just Betty and Jughead, together, with their feelings and a story to finish. Let's see what happens.**

**Chapter title taken from "Naked" by Avril Lavigne (it's a really sweet "Betty" song for this fic). Note this story is rated T, not M (but consider it a harder T for this chapter)**

* * *

"**I never had someone like you to help me fit in my skin…"**

**Betty**

The first thing I notice is the cool sheet beneath my palm. Smooth, the softest cotton I've ever felt in my life. My fingers trace lazy circles upon it as my eyes flutter open, vision blurry. My head spins as a trickle of sunlight pierces through the slats of white wooden blinds and I wince in pain.

My hand stills as it occurs to me that my house has curtains, not blinds.

I snap alert, palms pressing me to a seated position against a mountain of fluffy pillows in a four poster bed. The walls are painted pale green, the furniture a deep brown. This isn't my house. This isn't any house I've ever been in.

_Where am I?_

I swing my legs out of bed and spot it: my go-bag. The one I packed for my escape from Riverdale. It all comes flooding back now and I relax. The bed and breakfast ploy. The story we would finish on the run. I chuckle softly to myself, massaging my temples.

_What a nightmare! Kidnapping, gunshots… Betty, you have one hell of an overactive imagination!_

Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I stagger into the ensuite bathroom to brush my teeth. If Jughead and I are staying somewhere this romantic, there's no way I'm killing the mood with morning breath. My toothbrush is beside the sink beside a small tube of paste and I reach for it, eager to dispel the gunge in my mouth—and freeze.

My forearm is black and blue, a thin gauze bandage wrapped around my wrist.

I glance at the mirror, gasping in shock at my reflection. My left cheek is swollen and yellowed, my eyes rimmed in purple. My hair, I now notice, is plaited in twin braids curving down my shoulders—a style I never wear, but Toni often does. My arms stretch out before me and I grimace at the bruises and cuts marring my skin. Both wrists bear matching gauze bracelets.

_It wasn't a nightmare… _

"Betts? BETTS?!"

"Juggie?"

I peek my head out of the bathroom and find a panicked Jughead standing in the bedroom. His bedhead curls flop over his forehead, his tank top and faded plaid pajama pants strangely adorable. At the sight of me, he visibly relaxes and smiles.

"You're awake! You okay? Hungry?"

"I'm confused. Where are we? _When_ _are we_?"

"Yeah, yesterday was a bit of a wash for you. I'm not surprised you're feeling a bit lost. Come sit down, I'll walk you through it."

"In a moment. I need the bathroom first," I insist.

"Oh! Sure, take your time. I'm sorry, I'll, um… I'll get you water. No, juice. You need the calories." Jughead's rambling and blushing, and I have no idea why. "I'll be back."

I shut myself away in the bathroom, relieving myself before brushing my teeth aggressively and splashing my face with cool water to wake up. If I'm going to make sense of this, I need to be alert. Judging from Jughead's comments, I sense he's not going to offer me coffee on an empty stomach, and I'm too confused and anxious to eat just yet.

A memory flashes: the basement, where Penny and Tall Boy kept me. Because that nightmare was apparently real. Jughead facing off with her, gun in hand. Jughead calling me the woman he loves.

_It was part of the story… right? He doesn't love me for real. Why would he?_

I need to fill in the blanks. I need answers, that one most of all. Because I love him. God, I love him so much. He's the reason I fought through that nightmare. I promised myself if I survived, I would tell him _everything_.

"You okay, Betts?"

I open the door, forcing a half-smile. "Sorry, lost in my thoughts."

Jughead offers me a glass of orange juice and sits on the bed. "A lot's happened. Plenty of thoughts to get lost in."

I take a sip of juice, and suddenly, I'm parched. I drain the glass, shocking myself at my greedy gulps. As I sit the empty glass on the bedside table, Jughead smirks.

"That's how it's been since we found you."

I sit down beside him, my knee grazing his. "When was that?"

"Sunday night. Technically early Monday."

Glancing at the wall, I notice a clock and frown. "When is it now?"

"It's Tuesday morning," Jughead replies quietly. "Yesterday was… You needed sleep, Betts. How much do you remember about the days with Penny and Tall Boy?"

My mind flashes rapidly: punches to my face; chains; a knife. "Enough."

"They were barely feeding you, barely giving you enough water to survive. You weren't sleeping well. You were afraid to sleep." His hand reaches for mine, squeezing it gently. "You passed out in the van once we got you out of there. We took you to the Wyrm. Toni helped you shower and change."

"My mom? Polly?"

"They know you're alive. Archie and Cheryl, too. But they're acting like you're still dead. So's Veronica. Your idea. You insisted you wanted to leave town with me and remain a ghost until the story was published."

"Sounds like me."

"Toni retrieved your go-bag from Thistlehouse and we hit the road. You slept the whole way to Albany, where we grabbed a rental car. My car's been reported stolen and Dad had a buddy crush it since we figured Hiram's goons would be watching for it. You slept the whole way to Cape Cod, which is where we are now." He extends his free hand with a flourish around the room. "Yesterday, I woke you up a few times to eat, but you were so exhausted, I just let you sleep between meals."

"Wow, I'm lousy company!"

"Betty, you were kidnapped and tortured. You are allowed to do whatever you need to recover from that, alright?"

"Tortured is a bit much," I deflect.

He shifts from the bed, kneeling on the ground in front of me. His hands cradle my face with such kindness, my breath catches in my throat. Instinctively, I lean forward, our foreheads meeting in the middle.

"You don't have to minimize what they did to make me or anyone else feel better, Betty. It was horrible and cruel. I'm just grateful you're still here. So if you need to sleep all day for a week, I'll happily hang out and wake you up to shovel down some pasta, alright?"

I nod slightly, unable to speak.

"Are you hungry now? I was working on the story, but I was gonna take a break and make breakfast."

"Is it done?"

"Breakfast?"

"No, the story," I clarify.

"Pretty much. Just a few more bits and pieces. But you don't have to worry about that, Betts."

But I do. He doesn't understand. It has to be done first. That's the deal. That's what I told myself. Let him finish the story, then pour my stupid heart out to him. I pull away, my anxiety flooding my veins.

"We need to finish it. Let's go finish it now," I decide, rising to my feet.

"What? It can wait. It can definitely wait until after breakfast." Jughead rises to his feet, blocking my path. "Hey, what's wrong?"

"There's nothing wrong." The edge in my voice startles me as much as Jughead. "It's just… There's an order! Things have to happen in order. The story has to be finished. That has to happen first, and I need it finished before I can deal with anything else, it's important, it has to be done…"

I'm rambling. I know I'm rambling and I can't stop myself. The panic, it's swallowing me whole. I'm drowning in it, drowning in this wave of emotion. Drowning in questions, drowning in the desperate need to know if he loves me, choking on the tears of everything I haven't told him and want to NOWNOWNOW.

His hands are on my shoulders now, warm and strong and _safe_, and I can breathe. I inhale deeply, the air so sweet and satisfying.

"It will be done," he reassures me. "But if there's something else we need to talk about, it doesn't have to wait. There's nothing you can say that finishing the story will change. You have to know that."

"But the story! It's more important than me," I insist.

Jughead's gaze darkens. "You can't be serious. _Nothing_ is more important than you, do you hear me? _Nothing_. If you had died… I was going to finish the story, for you. Only for you. And then I was going to quit the fucking Times. Quit journalism, maybe."

"Juggie…." My jaw falls slack, the whirring in my brain grinding to a standstill.

"You are important, Betty Cooper," he repeats emphatically. "The story comes second. If there's something you need, ask me."

Do I dare? My hair is in messy day-old braids, I'm dressed in a tank top and yoga pants, my body is battered. It's not the romantic moment I've been planning for my plea to be loved, but maybe it's the right time. Here, in this room.

"I… What you said to Penny…"

"Yeah?"

"I… I'm confused. Because of the act we were putting on, but…"

I hang my head, giving up. My tongue is tied, my fear consuming me. I've been rejected once before by Jughead Jones. If it happens again, it will break me.

"Betts… " I swear I hear him curse beneath his breath as his right hand cups my chin, forcing my eyes to meet his. "Hiram knows who I really am. The act ended when I saw Veronica's car burning in that ravine." His voice cracks as he swipes an errant strand of hair from my eyes. "And the only acting I've ever been doing is pretending I wasn't really in love with you."

I blink hard, convinced that _this_ is the dream part now, that I am _definitely_ still in that basement with Penny and Tall Boy (and have apparently taken one hell of a hit to the head). There's no way he just told me… _that_.

"It's okay if you don't feel the same way, but I'm tired of lying to myself and everyone around us—"

"You love me?" The words lodge in my throat, scarcely more than a whisper escaping my lips.

"Yeah. I do. More every single day. It's kinda scary, but you're worth it," he asserts. "If I've overstepped, or overwhelmed you, I'm sorry—"

"Jughead?"

"Betty?"

"Shut up and kiss me."

My arms wrap around his neck as his lips crash into mine and my heart pounds so hard, I think I might die—but I'll die happy, because _he loves me. _He loves me and I love him. I kiss him like I'll never see him again, because if I have learned anything in that last few weeks, it's that life can suddenly chloroform you and that's a very real possibility. His palms cup my ass, pulling me against him and I moan into his mouth, deepening the kiss as I stagger-stumble us in search of the bed. The back of my knee connects with mattress and I fall backwards, pulling him on top of me with a giggle.

Breaking off the kiss, I hook my ankles around his waist. "Practice. You thought the kitchen was practice? How did you not know that I love you back?"

Jughead's arms plant on either side of me and he presses up, staring at me with bewilderment. "Hold up. _You_ love _me_?"

"So damn much," I confess. "It hurt to pretend it wasn't real. I would go home and want to cry, thinking you didn't want me back."

Jughead rolls his eyes, laughing. "You were in your office, right? I couldn't have faked a hard on like that if I wanted to." My cheeks burn as he leans down to kiss my nose. "I made so many excuses to kiss you. To hug you. I felt like an asshole, taking advantage of you. I even told you so! And still, you're thinking it's all just an Academy Award-winning performance…"

I reach up to toy with his messy hair, winding a curl around my index finger. "Veronica told me you were in love with me, but I insisted she was just trying to make me feel better about my pathetic track record with men."

"Archie told me not to break your heart because your exes were all losers. I blew him off, because it wasn't like you'd ever give me the time of day."

"Are we idiots? I think we're idiots."

"My dad called me stupid the other night. We might be. You know what I think?"

"Hmm?"

Bowing his head, his mouth finds my neck and I groan as he sucks hard enough to leave a mark. "I think…." He nips my ear, tugging the lobe gently with his teeth. "…we're doing way too much talking, and not enough kissing."

"I think we could be doing a lot more than kissing, Jughead Jones."

"Not today. You need to rest, and we do have a story to finish." At my grumbled protest, he shifts his hips, making it abundantly clear his own body is _not_ in agreement with his plans. "Call me sentimental, but I want to take you on a date first. A real one. Not a staged one. Trust me, I want _nothing_ more than to become intimately acquainted with every inch of your body. Part of me very obviously regrets this decision," he adds with a groan as I roll my hips, rubbing myself against him through the thin cotton of his boxers.

How is he real? As much as I'm aching to finally make certain recurring dreams of mine a reality, his proposition is so romantic, I can't help but grin.

"You want to take me on a date, Juggie?"

"Nothing fancy. We're lying low and all. You deserve that, Betts."

I lean up, kissing him lightly. "You're incredibly sweet. I am also incredibly frustrated after weeks of our fake dating. No intercourse before the date, but heavy making out is allowed today. My final offer."

With a smirk, Jughead slides a hand between us. "Oh, I never said you wouldn't be getting off today…"

We've been dating for real for five minutes. He's already my best boyfriend ever.

* * *

Breakfast becomes brunch after a long overdue makeout session that culminates with a mind-blowing orgasm, thanks to Jughead's skilled fingers. Expert writer, expert hand jobs, fantastic omelette. Is there nothing the man can't do?

Curled up on the couch in the living room of our Air BNB, Jughead walks me through the story as he's assembled it. The intent is for me to correct, clarify and add in anything I've overheard during my imprisonment before we ship it off to Jessica. The Times is looking to turn it over quickly and run it Thursday morning, front and centre.

It all goes back to Hiram's original stint in jail for real estate fraud, as best Jughead can tell. Back then, he had a side trade with the Blossoms involving the trafficking of drugs. We're not sure which one, but based on comments Veronica has heard over the years, we suspect cocaine or heroin. Hiram has ties to a syndicate in upstate New York who are likely using the Blossoms to ship their goodies throughout the country via syrup trucks. Hiram gets paid a cut for facilitating the venture.

Jason, heir apparent to the Blossom empire, discovers the drug deal and threatens to expose it or cut it off. He's killed. The Blossoms cease payments, although they still seem tied to drug trafficking. It's possible the NY syndicate pressured Hiram for the hit on Jason, and it's that piece that's fallen away.

Hiram tries to seize the Southside land, having decided to cut out the other syndicate and work directly with the Blossoms. Thanks to his time in jail, he's made some questionable connections that he plans to exploit. He's also seen the potential for profit in private prisons. When his initial land deals are shut down, he plays dirty, driving down property values to get his way.

A prison with a drug pipeline requires a little extra finesse. While behind bars, he has his men tail Mayor McCoy, looking for leverage on her. He quickly finds it, making the land deal for the school particularly easy. The governor is trickier, but thanks to his gambling habits, as Hiram undoubtedly learned via the St Clairs, he knew where to follow Dooley around, and struck gold, far beyond his planned bribe.

The story for the public is a shopping complex and condos; the reality is a private prison, with a hidden lab cooking drugs, dealt locally by Hiram's Ghoulie goons and distributed country-wide by the Blossoms.

"This is going to break Cheryl's heart," I muse sadly.

"It's the answer she's been looking for," Jughead counters. "Polly, too. It will hurt, but it's better than wondering why for the rest of their lives."

We flush out the story, adding in details of my conversations with Mayor McCoy, Tall Boy and Penny. The afternoon passes in polished sentences and edits, but at last, it's all there: the sordid crimes of Hiram Lodge, ready for the world to read.

"Care to do the honours?" Jughead asks.

He passes his laptop over and I select the file, uploading it to the cloud account at the Times. I watch the percentage climb, the bar filling until it hits 100%. _Upload Complete._

"Email's already drafted," he tells me. "Go ahead, hit send."

I pop open the window and open the Drafts folder. There's an email waiting to be sent to Jessica and I open it, skimming the contents to be sure it's correct. One sentence jumps out at me.

_We need to discuss giving Betty acknowledgement. I may have composed the story, but she did so much of the legwork here, she deserves credit—or at minimum, consideration for a role with the Times_.

"Juggie, this is _your_ story," I protest. "I'm the source."

"You're my collaborator," he insists. "It's your call, but I want to be on record that you did incredible work, Betts. This wouldn't exist without you."

I hit send and pass the laptop back to him. "Knowing you feel that way is enough for me. I'm just glad it's done and out there."

Placing the laptop on the coffee table, Jughead settles onto the couch, lying sideways and tugging me to sit between his legs, my back against his chest. I close my eyes, humming happily as he loops an arm around my waist. This is heavenly. It hasn't quite sunk in yet that we're a couple… Wait, are we?

"Juggie?"

"Yeah?"

"Stupid question: are we a couple?"

Chuckling softly, he kisses the top of my head. "You really need to ask?"

I tilt my head back, staring up at him. "It's been a confusing few weeks and this isn't… It doesn't feel real yet."

"It's real. And yes, I hope we are. Wait, should I be asking _you_ if we are?"

I groan, swatting his leg. "You're making fun of me, aren't you?"

"I'm serious. I've dated three women ever. You're making me paranoid." He does, indeed, look very concerned. "Should I have asked you?"

"I have a solution," I decide. "Jughead Jones, will you be my boyfriend? For real this time? No pretending to keep a mobster from killing me. Actual in love with you dating?"

"As long as you'll have me," he promises solemnly, leaning down for a kiss.

"Big mistake," I tease him. "What if I decide I want you forever? You'll be stuck with me."

"I meant what I said. Journalist, remember? Words are my thing," he quips.

"I'd say kissing is your thing, too," I purr.

"Oh, is it?"

I roll over, crawling my way up his body. "Well, I could be mistaken. Maybe I should investigate further."

Our mouths meet in a slow, unhurried kiss, my hand fisting in his grey t-shirt as his tongue teases mine. My last Tinder nightmare was a tornado tongue, sloppy and slobbery. This is sinful. This is making the whole _wait for the date tomorrow_ very difficult as his thigh slides between mine.

The trilling of a phone beside us earns a mutual disgruntled curse. My hand fumbles between us, toying with the fly of Jughead's jeans as he reaches for his cell.

"Ignore it," I plead.

"It's Archie," he groans. "As much as I want to, it could be about Veronica."

I abandon my lusty pursuits for the moment, snuggling into his chest as he answers the phone and greets Archie. Sure enough, he's at Riverdale Memorial with Veronica, who's determined to check up on me.

"Hold on, I'll put it on speaker," Jughead tells them, tapping the screen and setting the phone on his chest. "Alright, go ahead, guys."

"_B? You there?"_

My lips curve into a smile at the sound of her voice. "Hey, V. How are you feeling?"

"_The painkillers they've given me for my broken ankle are potent, so I'm feeling fabulous. Doctor says it's a hairline fracture, should be up in a walking cast soon. Only reason I'm still here is the bruised rib from my little cartwheel down the stairs. How are you?"_

"Awake, which is apparently more than can be said for yesterday. Jughead's on a mission to put back on the pounds I lost on the Peabody Diet."

Veronica huffs on the other end of the line. _"Speaking of that witch, guess who Daddy is blaming for my disappearance?" _

Jughead's fist slams into the cushioned back of the couch. "You can't be serious!"

"_That's the spin, Jug_," Archie chimes in. _"Tall Boy and Penny kidnapped Veronica for a ransom gone wrong. Some sort of leverage over property in the Southside. Considering no one can find them to ask questions…"_

My quizzical look at Jughead is met with a _Later_ and I reluctantly set it aside. "And your dad? Where is he now?"

"_Smithers is keeping tabs on him, not that it matters. The Feds and I have already spoken. I've told them I will provide a full statement Friday morning with my attorney present, and that it's in their best interests to monitor his accounts and freeze his passports, which they've done."_ Veronica's pleased with herself, but a twinge of pain in her voice betrays her mixed emotions.

"I know this isn't easy, V. I love you."

"_Love you too, B. Will we see you soon?"_

"When it's safe," Jughead interjects firmly.

"_Truman, I trust our discussions have become your discussions with B?"_

I prop myself up on one elbow, poking Jughead in the arm. "What discussions?"

"The idiot discussion, babe. And yes, Veronica, they have. You told her so, you told _me_ so, yadda yadda."

I hear Veronica hoot loudly on the other end of the line, as Archie asks her what she's talking about. I burst out laughing, kissing Jughead's cheek.

"_So we have pet names now, I see!"_ Veronica teases.

"Yes, and better things to do with our mouths than talk to nosy friends," I quip. "Get some rest, V. We'll talk to you tomorrow. Archie, please convince her to take it easy?"

"_I'll try, but I mean, you've met Ronnie, right? Same goes for you, Jug. Take care of Betty."_

"That's my priority, Arch. Talk soon." Ending the call, Jughead's gaze fixes upon me. "Well, they know now. Not that they didn't have us figured out already."

"Veronica even gave us a couple name," I reply, snickering to myself. "You ready for this? _Bughead_."

His blue eyes twinkle as he laughs, hugging me tightly to his chest. "She's going to make that a hashtag on her Instagram, isn't she?"

"Guaranteed."

With an exaggerated sigh, he kisses me hard. "The things I do for love…" he murmurs against my lips.

* * *

I wake up Wednesday morning to a kiss on the cheek and the smell of eggs and cheese.

"Good morning, Betts."

Yawning loudly, I roll over onto my back and nuzzle against Jughead's arm. "It feels early."

"Well, if someone hadn't woken up at two and decided she wanted to dry hump me for an hour, maybe she wouldn't feel so sleepy."

"In my defense, I was having a very vivid dream and needed _relief_." Rubbing my eyes, I spy a tray of food on the dresser across the room, complete with a slender glass of water containing a small spray of wildflowers. "Is that for me?"

"It is. Sit up, I'll bring it over."

Propping myself up against the wall of pillows in our bed, I watch in wonder as Jughead lays the tray on my lap. Another omelette with toast, berries and a glass of juice. I find myself struggling not to cry.

"You didn't have to do this, Juggie."

He shrugs, leaning against the dresser. "I know. I felt like spoiling you."

"No." I swallow hard, struggling with words. "I mean… I'm a sure thing. This is too much."

His expression shifts to one I've come to know well over the last few weeks: he's studying me, examining me, like evidence. He approaches the bed slowly, sitting at my feet.

"What makes it too much?" he probes gently. "The breakfast? The location? Or that it's for you?"

I fiddle with the fork on the tray, stabbing a strawberry. "It's not the breakfast."

"Have you ever eaten in bed while studying? Or sick?"

He has a point, and I'm annoyed to admit it. I answer him by shovelling said strawberry into my mouth.

"Archie wasn't kidding when he said your exes were losers," he muses aloud. "This? It's a four out of ten on the romance scale in my books. You deserve gestures like this all the time, Betts. My first mission is getting you to believe you deserve them."

He stands up slowly, leaning over to kiss my forehead. "Eat it before it gets cold. I'm going to grab a shower."

I wait for him to close the bathroom door before I begin to eat, pausing first to smell the flowers. _You deserve good things_, I tell myself. _You deserve him_.

I thank him after his shower, apologize for being weird. He laughs it off, tell me he probably would have reacted the same way. Liar. It's food. He would have eaten it first and felt weird later. The Jones men are notorious bottomless pits. He leaves me to shower and change for the day, telling me that we will be walking for part of the day when I ask what to wear.

I peel the bandages off my wrists, recoiling at the nasty scabs on them from where the chains and cuffs dug into my skin. I unbraid my hair and step into the shower, scrubbing away the last two days and discovering that my scalp is incredibly sore near the back of my head.

_Right. Penny pulled my hair a lot, and I did bang my head a few times_. _I've been sleeping so much, I'm probably concussed. Shit!_

I should tell Jughead, but I'm afraid he'll cancel our date if I do. After some debate, I decide to mention my head is sore, but not overtly tell him of the hit to the head. Is it a stupid idea? Maybe. Am I a woman who just wants one normal day with her brand-new boyfriend? Yes.

Since we're walking around and my wrists and ankles are a gross mess, I dress in jeans and a thin scoop neck sweater in a pale blue knit. It slouches just off my shoulder if I give it a tug, which I do today. I decide to leave my hair down in large, loose waves, their natural inclination with just a bit of shaping. A little creative makeup and I pass for a healthy college girl, not the victim of a kidnapping days prior. Drawing a deep breath, I head out to the living room, where Jughead is flipping channels on the TV.

"So, where are we going?"

As he glances up, his eyes widen. "Wow… How about we go nowhere? I suddenly don't feel like sharing you."

"Juggie, stop. It's jeans and a sweater."

Shaking his head, he rises to embrace me. "No, I am wearing jeans and a sweater. You are wearing jeans that highlight your perfect ass and a sweater that is begging me to bite your shoulder. But you're right: I have promised you a date, and a date we will have."

We hit the road, making a short drive to our first stop: a lighthouse. It requires a walk in to the peninsula, and the area is quiet, with only one other family in sight, being midweek. Hand in hand, we make the trek slowly, talking about childhood memories, books, music—everything _but_ the harrowing events that reunited us. I laugh more than I have in a long time, and we even make the foolish mistake of racing up the steps to the top of the lighthouse. Jughead wins, only just, but we both arrive breathless and hating ourselves.

"I pictured this… much more… romantically," he mutters.

"I'm too competitive… for your plans…" I pant.

On the bright side, we linger a while, kissing and snuggling on the breezy overlook while watching the waves. I snap several photos of us, marking the occasion.

From the lighthouse, we make our way to Provincetown, where we spend the afternoon wandering through art galleries before slipping into a small restaurant for dinner. In the moments where I pause and reflect on it, I'm stunned by how _easy_ it is to be with Jughead. It reminds me of when we were little, and he, Archie and I would spend every day together. Silences are comfortable, but we seldom run out of things to share.

As our server bring our dessert—chocolate cake for Jughead; key lime pie for me—Jughead glances at his watch and smiles.

"Perfect. We're on schedule."

"On schedule for what?"

"The coolest thing I found to do today. You're the one person who will appreciate it most, I think."

Curious, I find myself demolishing my pie, eager to move on to our final destination. Jughead picks up the tab, billing the Times for it despite my protests.

"You almost died. It's the least they can do."

"That excuse is only going to get us so far," I warn him.

"So they can take it off my wages." He shrugs nonchalantly, holding open my car door. "I really don't care. Come on, let's go."

The drive is short, only twenty minutes, but when we reach our destination, I know it would have been worth an hour of travel. My jaw drops open as Jughead turns off the highway, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel.

"A drive-in?"

"One of the few still operating," he enthuses. "If the Twilight was still around and we were home, it's where we would be tonight. It seemed fated."

I lean across the centre console, kissing his cheek. "This is perfect, Juggie. I love it!"

Overhead, the stars twinkle their approval.

* * *

With us catching the early showing, we're back on the road and fast approaching our Air BNB by 9:30. As we turn onto the side road I recognize as ours, my hands begin to shake in my lap.

We've had a date now. An incredible one, filled with laughter, popcorn flung all over this poor rental car, and so many kisses and touches. It was Jughead's one condition before we could consider taking things further. And while I've been practically ready to tear the man's clothes off for weeks, the very real prospect of doing so in the near future has me a nervous wreck. I have absolutely no idea why.

_Maybe you should just role play being a journalist pretending to date him. That seemed to kill your inhibitions_.

_Great pep talk, self._

We pull into the driveway and park, Jughead killing the engine. Afraid of saying something that will ruin the night, I step out of the car and decide to do the one thing that can't possibly make a mess of it all: I walk around to Jughead's side and kiss him.

"Thank you, for everything. You're incredible."

His hand caresses my cheek and I lean into the touch with a sigh. "This has been the best day, Betts. Thank you."

We walk up the steps together, his arm wrapped around me, and all of my anxiety just… melts. Why am I stressing? I trust him. I love him. We have a chemistry they should write papers about. Betty plus Jughead equals nuclear fusion of sexual energy.

_I'm worrying about nothing_. _I've wasted too much time doing that_.

Which is probably why Jughead's barely unlocked the door before my mouth is on his, hungry and wanting, as I toss my purse on the floor. His arm hooks around my waist, pulling me inside and the door slams shut. My back is pinned against it as the lock engages with a click and I gasp as Jughead's hands grip my ass, sliding me up the door until my legs are the perfect height to wrap around his waist. His mouth moves to my bare shoulder, his teeth grazing my skin as he leaves what is sure to be a large hickey. I curse beneath my breath, my hand fisting in his hair as my thighs squeeze tighter around his torso.

The ache for him is even worse than that night in my kitchen. I need him, all of him. Tonight.

His mouth trails kisses along my shoulder, to my neck and back to my eager mouth. Our tongues tangle and clash as my hands roam his chest, marvelling at the muscle beneath. His hands squeeze my ass, pulling me against the erection straining his jeans and I moan loudly. I need more. Always more.

"Bedroom," I gasp.

"Bedroom," he echoes.

He carries me there, my legs still wrapped around him, my arms wrapped around his neck as his face burrows between my breasts. Even through my sweater, I swear I hear him mumble _Holy shit_ and I grin, raining kisses down on the top of his head in reply. He sets me down on my feet beside the bed and tugs the hem of my sweater in unspoken question. I tug his sweater as a counter and we barter and trade, giggling nervously as jeans and socks give way to boxers, bra and panties.

I resist the urge to cross my arms over my chest, pulling his body to mine for cover instead. The feel of skin meeting skin sends a shiver down my spine, in spite of the heat radiating off of him. His lips meet mine with a reverence, his arms enveloping my frame.

"There's something I want to do," he whispers. "Do you trust me?"

"I do."

His lips ghost over my shoulders, moving along my bruised arms. He takes his time, kissing each and every mark, taking special care with my wounded wrists. I bite my lip, forcing back tears. There is no pity in his eyes, no pain—only love for me. His right hand slips behind me, unhooking my bra and I let it fall to the floor.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers, kissing each of my breasts.

"You make me beautiful, Jug."

We fall onto the bed and time loses meaning: it stills, it speeds. The world spins wildly as his fingers grip my panties, pulling them down and exploring my most intimate place with his tongue until my legs are shaking; it stops as he and I finally join, our bodies moving as one. I pull him close, kissing him as he thrusts hard and deep.

"I love you." I whisper it in his ear, like a secret prayer.

He presses his forehead to mine, stormy blue eyes boring a hole into my soul. "I love you, too. So much."

We touch and taste, kiss and caress, and as he slides his hand between us and works me to a frenzied climax, I know that this is it. This is the fairy tale. This is what people spend their lives looking for, and I'm lucky enough to have found it.

Gasping and spent, we lay side by side in bed, our fingers entwined.

"Wow," Jughead murmurs.

"Definitely."

"I don't know about you," he continues, "but that was better than I imagined it. And I imagined it a lot."

I turn my head, grinning at him. "Much better. But we could go again. To be absolutely sure."

"For science," Jughead adds calmly.

"Science," I agree. "I mean, we haven't tried with me on top."

"Kitchen counter. Shower. Couch. Up against the front door. Hood of a car beneath the stars…"

I giggle, playfully slapping his arm. "How many ways _have_ you thought of me, Juggie?"

"Oh, those were all just today," he replies, rolling onto his side. "You want lifetime?"

Pushing him onto his back, I straddle his hips, bracing my hands on his chest. "You're insatiable. I like that in a boyfriend."

His hands slide up my stomach to cup my breasts. "You on top next, then? I already see some perks. Give me about ten minutes."

"A perfect length of time to cuddle."

I collapse my body atop his, resting my head upon his heart and stretching one arm up to caress his cheek. His arm wraps around me and I sigh happily.

"I've never been naked with anyone for this long," I confess.

"Ever?"

"I usually leave my bra on. Or put a t-shirt on right away." I shrug, my fingers absently toying with his hair. "I don't feel comfortable naked."

"But you're naked now."

"Mmhmm."

His palm rubs small circles upon my back, slow and soothing. "Are you comfortable?"

I consider it for a moment. "With you, Jug, I don't know… It's different. You know me so well, it's just… not a big deal."

"That makes me really happy." Jughead's hand smooths lovingly over my hair. "And not just because your naked body is a work of art."

My lips press against his heart. "It makes me happy, too."

As the night stretches on towards morning, I discover that the list of things that make me happy also include: me on top; shower sex; and kitchen counter sex. _Definitely_ kitchen counter sex, as Jughead insists kitchens call for _eating_, and he has always had the biggest appetite I've ever known.

There's not a single moment where I feel the need to pull on clothes and hide. It's the best feeling in the world.

* * *

**FINALLY. **

**Do you feel better? Because I do! These two awkward sweeties have confessed their love, had a first real date AND written their story. Next up: the final chapter before a small time jump and an epilogue. What will happen when the story hits the news? What will the fallout be? Will Bughead be able to tear themselves apart long enough to answer the phone? We'll see.**

**Reviews are good karma - feel free to leave a comment down below. **


	20. We were the moon sweeping tide

**Here it is: the final chapter before the epilogue. Bughead finally CONFESSED. They got fluffy. Clothes were lost. They deserved it.**

**Multiple reviewers asked: "Still wondering about what happened before Jughead went to Toledo..." - I have not forgotten. I decided that we needed to get the story out, deal with Hiram and let our couple have a little fluffy bubble before going there. The epilogue jumps a few months into the future and is completely dedicated to what happened when they were kids, told in a bit of a fun way. It's one of my fave chapters. **

**But first: the story is hot off the presses. Time to get Betty out of hiding.**

**Chapter title is taken from Serotonin by Future History**

* * *

"**We were the moon sweeping tide, the day we let the monster die."**

**Jughead**

The first thing I'm aware of as I wake up is the cramping in my legs, which I immediately try to work out with a stretch. The second thing I'm aware of is that stretching will have to wait, as my legs are currently tangled with the slender limbs of the naked beauty curled up against my chest. Her messy waves obscure her features and my fingers gently hook the errant strands, tucking them behind her ears.

Betty Cooper: sleeping soundly, smiling. At peace, with me. She's also the reason my legs are aching right now, but I have no regrets about that. Especially not the kitchen, although I'm pretty sure I won't be able to cook in there without blushing today. I will also never look at a can of whipped cream the same way again.

I kiss the crown of her head, squeezing her a little tighter as reality slowly creeps in. It's a new day. Thursday. Which means, if the Times turned things around…

_The story hit the paper today._

A glance at the clock on the wall tells me it's almost eleven. Late enough that the news would have carried to Riverdale by now. And yet, here we are, sleeping in peacefully in a quiet corner of Cape Cod. Maybe the story hasn't gone through yet. Maybe the edits were astronomical. It's not like I'm an experienced journalist. College papers are one thing, but this is the Times.

"I can hear you thinking," a sleepy voice murmurs beside me.

"Shh, go back to sleep."

Betty stirs, her right leg hooking over my hip as she shifts closer. One sea-green eye peeks out beneath heavy lashes, her lips pouting.

"Is it early?"

"It's almost noon. But someone kept us up past three in the kitchen," I tease.

"I was hungry." She licks her lips and I groan as all the blood in my body heads straight for my groin. "You were hungry, too."

"I'm _always_ hungry," I growl, peppering kisses along her neck. "If you heard me thinking though, you know it's Thursday."

Her palm slaps lightly against my chest, eyes opening wide. "The story. Is it out?"

"That's what I was wondering before you woke up and started talking all-I-can-eat buffets. So now, I'm thinking story, schmory, it's time for brunch—"

"Juggie!" Betty laughs, her feet kicking lightly beneath the sheets. "As much as I thoroughly enjoyed last night, I want to know if this is over. I want to know if I can go home. Also…" Her cheeks flush bright pink as she hesitates. "My, um, body is _really sensitive_ and could maybe use a couple hours to recover."

"You're right. We need to see this through." With a kiss on her cheek, I slide out from beneath her. "Speaking of bodies, my legs feel like I've run a marathon, so take all of the hours you want."

"Archie was right," Betty exclaims as I head into the bathroom. "All of my exes were losers. You are amazing."

"I want that embroidered on a throw pillow for my apartment in New York!" I yell through the door as I relieve myself.

"Be careful what you ask for. I actually know how to embroider shit!"

"Of course you do," I whisper happily.

Quickly brushing my teeth, I open the door to my beautiful girlfriend, who swats me on the ass and demands her turn to freshen up. Shaking my head and grinning like an idiot, I grab clean underwear from the dresser and make my way down the hall, noticing my boxers from the night before have somehow ended up at the front door.

_It was a good night. The best night._

Boxers tugged on, I reach for my burner phone and grimace as I notice the battery is dead. Looks like in all of the excitement last night, I never charged the damn thing. I plug it in and grab my laptop next, opening up my emails.

Two from Mira. Four from Jessica. Two from Veronica. One from Archie. One from my journalism teacher at Northwestern…

"Um, Betty?"

"Yeah, baby?"

Grinning at her casual term of endearment, I open Jessica's most recent email first. "I think the story may be out there."

Betty's feet pad hurriedly down the hall as I skim over Jessica's email, telling me that since she didn't hear back about their suggested edits, they were proceeding with them and going ahead for Thursday morning on page three…

"Holy shit!"

"Is it in there?"

I glance up, momentarily distracted as I notice Betty's wearing my t-shirt—and nothing else. "Page three!"

Betty shrieks, flopping on the couch beside me. "I want to see it, Juggie."

"Hold on, they made some edits without my authorization since I didn't answer their emails."

"I don't like the sound of that."

I skim the emails, reviewing the edits. Most of them are minor changes, although one is a recommendation from their Legal department to omit the theory about the drug cooking lab in the private prison and "_leave it up to the reader to draw conclusions"_. I get it—no one wants a lawsuit, and it's the vaguest part of our story, evidence-wise—but it's frustrating.

"Well?"

I show Betty the email, highlighting the key points from Legal. "Most of it was cosmetic. This is the big one."

She skims it over, visibly frustrated. "But it's so obvious! The special candidates! The location of the school. The Ghoulie connections to the Blossoms."

"You know what? If the Feds move in and prove the drug pieces, I'll demand to write about it. Maybe Dooley will roll over and admit it. But it's out there, Betty. The story is live." I swallow hard, passing her the laptop. "I'm afraid to look."

"Then we do it together."

Betty follows the link from Jessica's email and hums triumphantly. The Times has run the story with a large photo of Hiram Lodge shaking hands with Governor Dooley at a charity event. "_Shake Hands With The Devil Or He Burns You To The Ground": How Real Estate Tycoon Hiram Lodge Razed Riverdale Through Blackmail, Bribe and Bloody Deeds_. Betty taps the screen, pointing to the byline and staring pointedly at me.

"Story by Jughead Jones, As Investigated by Jughead Jones and Elizabeth Cooper?!"

"Looks like Mira figured that out for me."

"Juggie, it's your story!"

Taking back the laptop, I shake my head. "No, it's only mine because you wanted to be anonymous. Hiram found you out so the anonymity was no longer necessary. Your notes in your files drove a good third of the story. It's your work, too. You easily could have written this, Betts." I scroll down the page, skimming the words, barely seeing them. "It's really here, though."

"Should we see what Veronica and Archie sent you?"

"Shit, yeah!"

I open up the email from Archie first. It's short and sweet, a simple _Call me, your phone is off_. Veronica's email is far more detailed:

_Daddy and Mommy were visiting poor, invalid me when the news broke. It was difficult not to grin when the Feds showed up to cuff them and take them away. Smithers and Archie are keeping me company. Your story was fabulous, Truman. _

_Mayor McCoy has announced a press conference for tomorrow morning. Tune in if you can!_

_Come home. Daddy won't be making bail._

"Everyone okay?" Betty asks.

"Yeah, they're fine. Hiram's behind bars. Veronica says he's not making bail, wants us to come home."

Betty draws her knees to her chest, tugging the hem of my t-shirt over them. "How long is this place paid up for?"

"I don't know, Saturday morning I think? Why?"

With a coy smile, she reaches for my laptop, setting it on the carpet. "As you're so fond of telling me, the least the Times can do after my kidnapping and torture is spoil us a little. They won't get a refund, anyway…"

"We have to at least call them first, Betts," I protest weakly as she moves to straddle my lap.

"Do we have to?"

"Five minutes. 'Hi, we're not dead, hooray for jail!' That's all," I insist as Betty's fingers toy with the elastic band of my boxers.

She pouts but relents, handing me my phone from the side table. "Fine..."

I tug on the faded cotton, pulling her in for a kiss. "You know I'm yours from now on, right?"

"I do. I just like our little bubble." She nudges my shoulder, smiling. "Go on, call them."

Thrusting my hips upwards, I smirk as she moans. "I would, but you straddling me in nothing but my t-shirt has drawn all the blood from my brain to another organ. Care to move so I can concentrate?"

"Point taken," she murmurs, rising to her feet. "I'm getting a glass of water."

Laughing, I dial Archie's number first. It rings twice before he picks up and I throw him on speaker: Veronica's lawyered up, as have her parents. A bail hearing is being held this afternoon, but the Feds are declaring Hiram and Hermione flight risks, as well as suggesting their freedom would allow them to destroy evidence not yet seized and identified. Veronica has provided a preliminary statement to this effect.

Mayor McCoy has been seen in and out of the police station, and Sheriff Minetta has been suspended pending investigation. The State Police have assumed authority in Riverdale—and the byline of the story has the town buzzing about the body in Veronica's torched car.

"_When will you guys get back here?"_ Archie asks.

"I need to know Hiram's bail has been denied first," Betty insists. "Then, we make a plan."

"She's in charge, Arch. Whatever she needs. Send us an email. We're trying to unplug and relax today."

_Thank you_, Betty mouths, blowing me a kiss.

"_No problem, Jug. You feeling better, Betty?"_

"I'm wonderful, Archie. Now that everything is out in the opening, I feel relieved, you know? And Juggie is taking excellent care of me."

Goodbyes exchanged, we plan our last day in our Cape Cod haven: breakfast, a shower, a walk by the water and the rest of the day spent naked in bed

* * *

Friday is a blur of phone calls, streaming news and emails.

Hiram's bail is denied, as is Hermione's. Mayor McCoy resigns bright and early, refusing questions as she is now a _material witness_. The Times is losing their collective shit over the hits and citations they're getting, and are fielding calls from TV networks, seeking interviews. I immediately decline, and Jessica steps up as the spokesperson for the piece.

With Hiram locked away and Veronica having provided her statement to the police, her lawyer contacts us and makes arrangements for Betty to follow suit, on Veronica's dime, of course. Curled up in bed, we debate staying another night in Cape Cod, but opt to sneak back into Riverdale late Friday night, in hopes of evading the majority of the press.

My dad meets us at the edge of town with a group of trusted Serpents: Toni, Sweet Pea, Torque, Fangs, and Crusher. A personal escort back to Thistlehouse, where we'll be staying. Cheryl and Nana Rose have spread their wings, so to speak, inviting the Andrews and Jones families to stay with them, along with Veronica.

"One central location, easy to protect," my father had explained that afternoon. "Cheryl insisted."

As we drive, I notice Betty fidgeting with her purse in her lap. I reach over with my right hand, covering hers with a gentle squeeze of reassurance.

"What are you thinking about?"

"Seeing mom and Polly," she replies softly. "When Penny and Tall Boy… Hiram showed me a video of the memorial. My mom and Polly were so devastated. I hate that this story I chose to pursue has caused them so much grief."

I signal for the turn for Betty's street and shake my head. "You chased this story because you love Polly. Because she deserved justice for Jason. Cheryl deserved justice. You did that, Betty. I'm sure they're just glad you're okay." I hesitate, glancing down at her cardigan. "The long sleeves were a good call. The cuts on your arms would probably freak them out."

"Do they freak you out? Are they ugly?"

"No! Not like that… Just… When I first saw them, they broke my heart. You were barely awake when we found you, so you missed out on me imagining the days you spent chained up, staring at them and feeling angry I hadn't found you sooner. It's not your fault. It's their problem, their thing to get over, though. But if you're already anxious about tonight, it's one less thing to stress about, right?" I smack the steering wheel in frustration. "That wasn't helpful, was it?"

"It was honest, Juggie and yes, it was helpful. I know what you mean." She leans over, kissing my cheek lightly. "There's a lot of things I hide from them. My darker side, the harder moments… This is one of those things I would want to shield them from."

"And me?" I ask nervously, turning into the winding driveway of Thistlehouse.

"You understand darkness. I can trust you."

Parking the car, I turn to her and smile. "You can. And I trust you with mine."

The car is surrounded by bikes, my father pulling up beside my door. He holds up a hand, gesturing in a circle. _Perimeter check._ I nod and we wait, holding hands in comfortable silence. Betty leans her head against my shoulder, eyes closed. She tires easily still, and after admitting her head's still a bit sore from whatever was done to her, I plan to have Veronica railroad her into some diagnostics, just in case.

My father returns, opening my door. "Welcome home, Jug, Betty."

Betty circles the car, embracing my father tightly. "Thank you, Mr. Jones, for everything."

"FP, Betty. You're family," he gently rebukes her.

The door to Thistlehouse opens, yellow light spilling onto the cobblestones as a pair of blondes rush forward to greet us. I hang back with my dad, nudging Betty into the eager arms of her sister and mother. Tears begin to fall immediately on all sides, particularly Alice—a shock for all of us. Alice Cooper has always been a collected person, calm in a crisis. Now, she clings to Betty, soaking her shoulder as she tells her how much she loves her, how proud she is of her, how lost she was when she thought she was dead.

"I'm so sorry, Mom, Polly. I never meant for it to be like this." Betty swipes at her eyes, brushing aside tears. "All I ever wanted was to protect the town and get justice for Jason."

"You did that. You found the truth," Polly assures her. "But you almost got killed doing it!"

"I'm safe, Pol. Thanks to Juggie, Veronica and the Serpents."

Alice glances over at me, then at FP. Again, I see it: there's something strange between those two. I nudge my dad and he mutters at me to let it go. _Oh, there is history there!_

From the doorway, a very familiar voice calls out: "Some of us are on crutches, you know! Get your asses in here and greet me, please!"

"Go in, Betts. I'll get the bags."

"No, I'll get them," my father insists. "Alice, maybe you can help?"

As I take Betty's hand and follow Polly, I hear my father's teasing voice: "Like mother, like daughter?"

Polly glances over at me in surprise. "Our parents?" she whispers.

Behind us, Alice Cooper's trademark sniping voice rings out: "Shut up, FP!"

Betty giggles, looping her arm through Polly's. "Oh, they so did it!"

"What can I say? I guess us Jones men have a type."

We head inside the bustling mansion and greet our waiting family and friends: Nana Rose, who greets us warmly, but excuses herself to sleep soon after our arrival; Cheryl and Toni; Fred Andrews, who embraces us both tightly; Polly's boyfriend Thom, whom Betty finally gets to meet (and approve of); and of course, Archie and Veronica, the latter hobbling in a walking cast adorned in lace trim. Embraces are exchanged, drinks are poured, and my father and Betty's mom return, slinging sarcastic barbs, but smirking at each other now.

As the group gathers in the garden, Veronica pulls us aside and assures us that she has laid down ground rules for our return: no questions about Betty's imprisonment and no questions about the story tonight unless we want to discuss it. Betty's grateful smile speaks volumes, and I find myself hugging Veronica despite my natural aversion to sentimentalism.

Instead, we exchange stories from our collective childhood, which leads to the revelation that Betty and I apparently kissed in kindergarten on Valentine's Day. She also kissed Archie, which of course means he and I simply have to know: who's the better kisser?

"Oh, come on! I don't even _remember_ this!" Betty is laughing so hard, her cheeks are cherry red.

"Um, B? The answer is _me¸_ obviously," Veronica chimes in playfully.

Archie leans in as the tittering crowd grows louder. "What does that mean?"

"It means our girlfriends have kissed, Archie. Something Veronica neglected to tell me during our slumber party in Virginia."

"It was _not_ a big deal!" Betty protests, reaching for my hand. "It was also ages ago."

"Ah, but you remember this kiss?" I tease.

Veronica crosses her legs, leaning back with a smug smile. "Cheryl remembers it too."

The redhead tosses her long hair over her shoulder, sipping her martini. "I do. TT and I are more memorable kissers, but it was definitely a girl-on-girl lip lock."

"I so don't want to know this!" Alice protests, covering her ears.

"I kinda do," my dad quips, clearly out to annoy her.

"It was punctuation on our tryouts for cheerleading, nothing serious. The only person I am kissing from now on is Jughead, end of discussion!" Betty announces, moving to sit on my lap as if to stamp the conversation.

"You heard the lady." I loop my arm around her waist, holding her steady. "Although, to keep things fair, I feel like I should be kissing Archie and Veronica tonight. Just to complete the whole circle or whatever."

I honestly don't know what's funnier to me: Veronica's casual "Sure!" or Archie's "Not gonna happen!"

"Riverdale: the town with Pep! And somehow, no mono," Toni deadpans.

"My point in bringing up this conversation, which took several unexpected turns," Fred observes wryly, "is that you two had a way of ending up in your own little world as kids. I know you drifted apart as teens, but seeing you together now, it reminds me of that connection you always had. Archie and Betty were always best friends, but you two had your own language."

Betty and I exchange a look, each of us bewildered. Sure, I can usually tell how she's feeling, and we've been making faces at each other every time my dad and her mom annoy each other, but that's normal couple stuff, right?

"I rest my case," Fred jokes, chuckling loudly.

"I can't help that my face is expressive," I protest.

Betty coughs, nearly choking on her wine. "Oh, is that what you call it? Expressive? God help me if we ever share any classes at Columbia."

"Wait a minute: you're both going to Columbia?" Polly's grin widens as she stares at us, and I swear that we are suddenly starring in a rom-com she's writing in her head. "What are the odds of that?"

"Well, Juggie's taking a year off first, but that's the plan next year," Betty explains.

"Considering we're both journalism majors and at the top of our classes, Columbia would be the expected school for us to pursue," I chime in. "Although both of us getting in is a long shot, especially me. Betty's the brains of this duo."

"Are you joking? You helped bring down Hollywood stars bribing their kids' way into college!" I bury my face in her neck as Betty continues to regale our friends, to my embarrassment. "Remember that sitcom star who got busted faking track photos of her snobby Instagram influencer daughters? Jughead broke that story!"

"Shut up!" Cheryl shrieks. "You got Ruby Giacomo booted from Yale? I love it!"

"I wrote a story that led to them investigating the full scope of things and yes, led to Ruby and her sister being booted from Yale," I reluctantly admit. "That's how I got the internship at the Times. So really, Ruby's mom is the reason we're together."

"We'll send her a thank you card in jail," Betty quips.

The adults call it a night first, with Polly and Thom following soon after. Cheryl and Toni leave us after a fourth bottle of wine, but judging from the way Cheryl keeps nuzzling her girlfriend, they have no intentions of sleeping. Distantly, I hear crickets chirping over the soft music playing on the patio. Betty remains curled up on my lap, her head resting on my shoulder and her arm dangling at her side. She's worn out, but refuses to sleep when I nudge her.

"And then there were four," I muse.

"The Fabulous Four," Veronica corrects me. "Reunited."

Betty passes me her empty wine glass, her attention fixed on Veronica. "How are you doing, V? Really?"

Veronica hesitates, sipping her wine slowly as she stares at the ground. "My father deserves everything he's going to get, and more. I don't regret us taking him down. I truly don't. My mother… She knew so much of what was going on, and she stood by and let him do it. That's guilt to me of another degree. But they're still my parents, and it's still… It's hard. I have Smithers and Archie. I have you two. The rest of the family has shunned me for what I've done. My aunts, uncles, cousins… I'm alone."

"I'm so sorry, V." Betty stretches out her hand and Veronica accepts it, their fingers interlacing. "You know about my dad. I know it's nothing like this, but remember what you told me? He may be terrible, but you can't help the fact that a part of you is always going to be that little girl who loves her daddy."

"I know. I do." Archie rubs Veronica's back as she dabs away tears, forcing a brave face. "He wasn't terrible when I was small. He was never terrible to me. Not until I defied him. But that's not love, is it? That's conditional."

"When my dad was drinking, he was a terrible man," I begin quietly. "He was abusive. He almost hit me a few times. He'd scream, throw things. Fred would step in, but when I was thirteen, mom had enough. She packed me and my sister up and we left for Toledo. She loved him still, but she couldn't stand by and accept what he was doing… The last straw was when he threw this glass bowl… This stupid glass bowl, some wedding gift…"

My voice trails off, as I remember that night: the screaming, the empty bottles of whiskey, my sister screaming in her room. I'd tried talking to Betty that day, but she'd seemed flustered and then Archie had asked her for help with a project after school and… I'd given up.

"Juggie? What happened?"

"The bowl shattered against the wall near the front door, right as I was walking in and a shard hit me here..." I run my finger along my eyebrow, drifting towards the corner of my right eye. "My mom freaked, saying I could've gone blind. Two weeks later, we were gone."

"You never told me that, Jug," Archie whispers.

"You didn't want to know. And that's okay. I didn't want you to." I focus on Veronica, pushing past the swirling nausea within me. "Anyway, I'm only telling you this because sometimes, our parents do bad things, and the most loving thing we can do is make them face the consequences."

"Thank you, Jughead." Her hand presses to her heart, as if to steady it. "That's how I'm going to choose to see this."

Silence, the uncomfortable kind. Betty cuddles closer and I hug her just a little tighter, seeking comfort. I suspect she's picturing that night with my father, imagining shattering glass and shards jutting from my skin. I know she can hold my darkness, keep my secrets. I just wish she didn't have to.

"Well, on the bright side, you've both missed the banality of frosh week?" I joke weakly.

"Oh my God, classes started this week!" Betty gasps. "Juggie, people thought I was dead. What if they cancelled my admission?"

"They didn't."

"But I was dead! It was all over the news. There was a memorial, and my family was there—"

"And your mother refused to believe you were gone," Archie interjects. "She repeatedly told the press that she didn't believe you were in the crash."

"Also, I may have called Columbia on Monday and confirmed you were injured, but very much planning to attend school this week," I confess sheepishly. "I hope that was okay. I knew how hard you worked for it and—"

I take Betty's enthusiastic kiss as a seal of approval for my actions, and an excuse for us to say goodnight. We make our way upstairs to Betty's room and close the door. As Betty strips down, I pause, remembering the last time I spent the night at Thistlehouse.

"Betts?"

"Hmm?"

"The night I stayed over… I woke up late that evening and came to find you. You were on the phone, so I didn't knock… If I'd knocked, what do you think would have happened?"

Betty crosses the room slowly, clad only in a flimsy black bra and matching panties. Tugging her hair free of her ponytail, her gaze roams my body.

"As much as I was telling Veronica that night that I had to behave until after the story was done, if you'd knocked? I don't think I would have been able to hold back anymore. May I?"

I nod vigorously and she grips my t-shirt, tugging it over my head and dropping it on the carpet. "I hate my hearing, and my timing. I heard you telling Veronica that the story was the most important thing to you and felt like an unprofessional pervert. I went back to the guest room and felt like crap."

"I wish you'd told me sooner, Juggie. Not just this. About your dad."

I kick off my jeans, nudging them aside with my foot. "We weren't close anymore, not like we were. I just wanted to keep things light. Forget everything at home."

That last weekend. Hanging out with Betty and Archie at Pop's. And then, the party at Cheryl's, where I'd screwed up everything with Betty, left for Toledo knowing I'd blown it forever. Blown it so badly Betty barely remembered me when we were reunited in the offices of the Times. Maybe someday, I'll ask her about that night, but not yet. Not until the dust settles with Hiram Lodge.

"Knock on the door," Betty whispers.

"What? Like go out there, in my boxers?"

Her cheeks flush pink as she bows her head. "No, of course not. Just… pretend."

Feeling silly, I oblige. "Um, knock-knock."

Betty mimes opening a door, smiling brightly. "Hey, Juggie."

"Hey…"

"It's late. Did you need something?"

I think I've had too many beers for this… whatever she's trying to do. "Um…"

"Because I do," she continues, edging closer. "What I did in the kitchen was terrible. I took advantage of you. That wasn't practice for anything. I know it's completely unprofessional, especially since this was all my idea, but… you turn me on more than any other man I've ever been with. No one has ever made me this ridiculously horny just from making out." I stifle a laugh as her arms wrap around my neck, our noses grazing each other. "But more than that, I'm falling for you, and that terrifies me, because nobody ever wants me back when I fall for them. I know this is a lot, but I'm hoping you don't run screaming from this house, that I'm not reading this all wrong, that you feel _something_ close to the jolt of electricity I get every single damn time you touch me…."

"That's what you were thinking in here that night?"

"Yeah… What were you thinking?"

Alright, honesty time. If this incredible woman can bare her soul like this, I can do the same.

"I'm sorry to barge in here so late, Betts. Maybe the Cristal is making me braver than usual, but I can't do this anymore. I'm so sorry. I'm so out of line. You're trusting me, as a friend, a colleague, to be professional and maintain this act, but it's not an act for me. I love you, Betty Cooper. I want you. As a friend, a lover, a girlfriend… everything. Today at the party, there was something about the way you looked at me that made me wonder if maybe, you felt the same way… I can't shake it. If I'm wrong, I promise I can put it aside. The story matters more than me. But if I'm right, please tell me, because feeling like I'm using you is killing me."

"Oh, Juggie." Her mouth finds mine, kissing me softly. "You were right. _This_ is right. From now on, we knock."

Impulsively, I lift her up over my shoulder in a fireman's carry. "Can't knock if you're never apart."

Betty giggles as I gently toss her into the bed, crawling my way up her body to kiss her anew. Her eyes shine bright emerald, her bruises fading to almost distant memories. Her smile stretches wide as my fingers drift along her side, tracing down to her hip and the flimsy lace hugging it.

"How soundproof are your walls?"

"I usually can't hear Cheryl and Toni next door. Why?"

With a wink, I trail kisses down her torso, pausing on her thighs. "You know what they say about Jones men: our appetites are legendary…"

* * *

**Hiram is behind bars, right where he belongs, and Betty is HOME. All is right in Riverdale once more.**

**One last part awaits, where we flash forward for a little "what came next" for others, but mostly, zero in on an overdue conversation: what happened before Jughead moved to Toledo that would make these two so ridiculously skittish to admit their feelings in the first place? It's your last chance to take a guess about Cheryl's party. See you soon!**


	21. Epilogue: Now that we're not hiding

**Here we are, one last mystery to solve...**

**A special thank you to the reviewers especially those who consistently left little notes: KittiLee (MVP), phatfatbunny, FatPatricia515, BorisYeltsin, anyone I'm forgetting... When writer's block was brutal, I was writing this for you. You're awesome. **

**We know Jughead had feelings for Betty before leaving for Toledo. We know, from flashbacks, that Betty had some feelings for him, too. The very observant will realize that while Betty seemed to not remember him when they crossed paths at the Times, she clearly DID remember their childhood years. What happened?**

**Let's find out and send them off into their HEA.**

**Chapter title taken from Maps For The Getaway by Andrew McMahon In The Wilderness. Quoted song is With Arms Outstretched by Rilo Kiley.**

**For added ambiance, when a slow song comes on a radio in the past, play The Only Exception by Paramore (you'll know what I mean when you read it).**

* * *

**EPILOGUE  
****"Now that we're not hiding, somehow you're still riding in my car."**

**Betty: December 26****th**

"Don't forget the box—"

"I won't."

"And the blanket—"

"On your bed. Yes, Betts. I know." Jughead pauses to kiss my cheek on his way back upstairs. "I watched you pack over the last few days. I'm pretty sure I know what's coming back to New York with us."

"Sorry. I know, I'm doing it again."

"What, being a Cooper?" Jughead hurries up the steps, laughing as I stick out my tongue.

"You two are nauseating," Veronica scolds as she emerges from the kitchen.

"Oh, like you're any better, future Mrs. Andrews?" I tease.

Veronica blushes, staring down at her left hand for the hundredth time in the last few days. "I'll concede that Archiekins and I are a little sentimental. But isn't that what love should be? Grand gestures, butterflies, stupid grins every time you see his goofy face?"

Leaning against her shoulder, we watch as Archie and Jughead lug the last of my belongings down the steps of Thistlehouse, the two of them quietly joking about something unknown. Butterflies? Check. Stupid grin? Most definitely. Grand gestures? All the time.

"We're lucky women, V."

"And we'll gossip about it next week at the spa. I've booked us a full day of treatments. You and me, besties united," Veronica gushes.

"I thought I was your bestie," Jughead protests, jutting his lower lip. "We shared donuts and 90 Day Fiancé. I braided your hair. We took a quiz in Cosmo together. Where's my facial peel, Veronica?"

Veronica pokes the large box in his arms, stumbling him off balance. "Truman, we are besties, but Betty is _the bestie_. I need a little girl time after months of stuffy board rooms with old white men who want to call me sweetheart."

"I'm just messing with you. Besides, Archie and I prefer our faces unpeeled."

Archie adjusts the box in his arms, nodding enthusiastically. "And why would you pay for hot rocks on your back?"

"Men!" Veronica scoffs. "Go put that in the car, already!"

We watch them from the front door, shivering in the bitter cold of an upstate winter. Veronica is dressed in her elegant best: a violet dress, cut to her knees and hugging her slender frame, her hair swept up in a French twist. I'm road-ready in the impossibly soft, green cashmere sweater she bought for me for Christmas and my favourite jeans. Polar opposites since day one.

Some things never change, although so much has in the last three months.

Take, for example, the _Fred Andrews for Mayor_ sign on the front lawn. With Sierra McCoy swiftly resigning, Archie's dad immediately threw his name in the proverbial hat. Had Penelope Blossom not dared to enter the race, there would have been no need for an election at all. The obnoxiously large sign on the lawn of Thistlehouse was a pointed middle finger from Cheryl to her mother. Fred had won with 95% of the vote, leaving Riverdale in the very best of hands.

I'd asked Cheryl about taking down the sign when we arrived, but she'd dismissed me immediately.

"_It pisses Mummy Dearest off when she visits Nana Rose. I'm leaving it up for the next four years._"

Pop's was also in good hands, thanks to Veronica. Hermione Lodge had signed an immunity deal, turning state's evidence against Hiram. She'd also turned over her shares of his businesses to Veronica—a gesture of apology for her role in my kidnapping. The result: Veronica became the majority shareholder of Hiram's entire empire, thanks to her token shares. A careless mistake Hiram had made when she turned eighteen.

As assets were deemed unrelated to criminal activity—not all of Hiram's dealings were illegal, it turned out—Veronica assumed control. Her first action: selling the diner back to Pop Tate for a dollar and the rights in perpetuity to the space for La Bonne Nuit. Pop was thrilled, and business was booming for both of them. Our spa date was a fortunate by-product of a business trip into the city to oversee the renovation of a commercial development Hiram had acquired in recent months.

As for SoDale and the associated prison, everything is frozen pending Hiram's trial, but Veronica's already been looking at ways to turn it into something positive for the town. The condos Hiram dreamed up? Veronica sees them as a co-op, with half the units reserved as geared to income housing. Southside High will be a school with an adjoining factory element providing paid work to area teens, the profits of which will repay Lodge accounts for necessary renovations.

"That's everything!" Archie announces, slamming the trunk of our rented van. "You sure you want to head out this late?"

"They're calling for a snowstorm tomorrow, Arch. I'd rather drive three hours at night than six in a whiteout," Jughead replies.

"Group hug!" I demand, ushering my friends closer.

Somehow, I end up crushed in the middle of the circle, but I don't mind. I love these three people so very much, owe all of them my life. We may not see each other every day, but I carry Archie and Veronica with me in my heart, as sure as I carry my mom, Polly and Cheryl.

"Text us when you get home," Archie insists, hugging me one more time.

"I promise. See you next week!"

Jughead and I hop into the van, where I tug on my waiting coat for extra warmth. Our friends watch us pull away, waving one last time as we head down the dark road towards the main highway. I reach for my phone, connecting the Bluetooth to the van's stereo and selecting my favourite playlist.

Jughead clucks his tongue. "Driver should get to call the road music."

"The driver loves my music and is being contrary," I rebuke him.

"My argument remains valid… even if you're right."

Smiling, I lean back in the seat, watching the familiar streets and homes pass by. I've been living away from home for years now during the school year, but something about shacking up with Jughead has lent a new gravity to it all. It's also the reason we needed the van for this trip.

After three months of Jughead complaining about loud neighbours and cockroaches, and me working so many hours to make rent that I ended up in the ER with severe anemia, something had to give. Jughead offered to help with my rent, so I would slow down and rest. I insisted that wouldn't be fair, even if he was spending five nights a week with me. I impulsively suggested he move in, solving both of our problems. We both panicked for two days, then realized it was the best idea we'd ever had.

Too soon? For who? Not us. We've known each other since we were skinned knees and swing sets. Once I decided I didn't care what anyone else thought about it, I was thrilled. Jughead's major hurdle was his genuine disbelief that I would want him around every day; my heart still hurts to think of how vulnerable he was, the night we agreed to move in together. I make it a point to tell him as often as possible just how happy I am to wake up beside him.

My heart sings, its only refrain _Jughead Jones, I love you._

Jughead's only major request for our new home is his own desk, currently rattling around in the back of the van, along with a few other beloved décor embellishments. They'll go nicely with the pillows I made him for Christmas, which are hidden in my—_our _bedroom closet back home.

The van stops and I shake free of my reverie, realizing we've taken a detour. Jughead's hand is on my knee, squeezing gently as I stare out the window wistfully.

My childhood home, once for sale, now Sold Over Asking. My mother finally let it go, along with her rage at my father. She's renting a small apartment close to the Register for now, waiting to see if Veronica's co-op idea comes to life on the Southside. I suspect FP Jones has something to do with that, after her admission they dated before she got with my dad.

"The scene of the crime. Where we met."

"Where we said goodbye," Jughead adds. "Where I should have told you how much you really meant to me before I left."

There's a heaviness to his words, a sadness there that shines in his irises as I turn my head. I lean towards him and he meets me in the middle, our lips grazing. Feather-light, delicate, so as not to shatter him. As he pulls away from the curb, I remember that last week before Toledo. I remember the night he broke my heart, how he avoided me until that final goodbye on my porch, where I wondered how it was possible for a guy to break my heart in two very different ways.

It's the one thing I've never told him about: the lie in the Times office.

We're about a half hour down the Interstate when it happens. One of my favourite songs shuffles up, this short acoustic song by Rilo Kiley I discovered thanks to Ethel Muggs in grade seven.

"_It's sixteen miles to the promised land  
And I promise you, I'm doing the best I can…"_

It's this perfect song of longing for someone to just… want you back. If this isn't a sign, I don't know what is.

"Juggie?"

"Yeah, Betts?"

"There's something that's always bothered me about you leaving," I blurt out quickly.

"Leaving? When?"

"For Toledo…"

"Oh." He grows quiet, and a quick glance in my periphery tells me his grip on the steering wheel is white-knuckle tight. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"The party. We have to talk about the party." My stomach coils, but I force myself to fight against the panic. "I mean, we're moving in together. We trust each other, right?"

"I trust you," he mumbles.

"So… can we talk about the party at Cheryl's the weekend before you left for Toledo?"

"I'm surprised you remember it," Jughead snipes. "You barely remembered me when Jessica called that meeting at the Times."

_Fuck. _"Um, about that… I may have been exaggerating how little I remembered…"

"Define _exaggerating_, Cooper."

"Well, I definitely knew exactly who you were," I confess. "Our history… Basically, everything?"

Jughead glances over at me and I feel a chill run down my spine. "Are you serious?"

"Are you _mad_ at me?"

"That depends," he deflects angrily. "Did you just admit to pretending not to remember how close we were as kids? Did you consider how much it might hurt me to feel forgotten?"

"I was protecting myself!" I yell defiantly. "It was how I dealt with that party!"

"WHOA… Okay, yeah, we need to talk about the party." His voice softens as he reaches out and turns down the music. "Why don't you tell me how _you_ remember it?"

How _I_ remember it? As if there's some other truth to that night?

"Betts?"

I have a strange feeling about this, all of a sudden…

_Cheryl Blossom hates me. Her friends hate me. There is zero reason for me to be at this damn party, and yet, here I am, dressed in this stupid purple dress my mother insisted on buying for me. Archie is here, and he called me earlier and said he'd convinced Jughead to show up, so now the entire class is here. _

_It's Jughead's last full weekend in Riverdale. I can't miss that, can I?_

_Swallowing back my nerves, I make a plan: head inside, avoid Cheryl, who will surely be in the centre of the room, holding court. Find Jughead and Archie, hide behind Archie's popularity and Jughead's razor-sharp tongue. Dance a little, laugh a little. Leave early and watch movies at Archie's house. Just the three of us, like old times._

"_I can do this," I tell myself._

_Thornhill is enormous, a looming house better suited to a horror movie. As I slip inside the main foyer, Reggie and Midge rush past me, giggling and laughing. To my left, Josie and Valerie are heatedly debating the merits of Rihanna versus Beyoncé. Music is blaring loudly, and half of the football team are hooting at Chuck Clayton as he chugs from a large bottle of whiskey. It's a full-on pre-teen rager and so not my scene._

"Chuck Clayton is one of the people I miss least about Riverdale," Jughead interrupts.

I wince, slumping in my seat. "So now wouldn't be the time to tell you I dated him?"

"NO. Tell me you didn't, Betty." My silence earns a low groan of disapproval. "That guy's a walking Axe Body Spray commercial."

"Archie told you my exes were losers… He dumped me after a month when I wouldn't fuck him."

"That asshole doesn't deserve to breathe the same air as you… I'm sorry. Continue, please."

_I slip inside the kitchen, grabbing a red plastic cup and filling it up. I find Archie in the dining room, drinking beers with Moose and Kevin. Jughead, however, is nowhere to be found. Hasn't shown up yet. I'm disappointed, but hang out, even find myself having fun dancing with Archie and Kevin, until Cheryl spots me. _

_Cue one of her patented fits. Who let the dog in the house, etc. Archie challenges her and as if he knows it's Bitch O'Clock, Jughead staggers into the room with a bottle of whiskey in his hand, ushering me into the yard for fresh air. _

"_You're late," I tease him._

"_I'm here, Cooper. It's a modern miracle."_

"_Archie was pretty demanding."_

"_And yet, there he goes, off with the football team," Jughead observes bitterly._

_Shrugging my shoulders, I raise my glass in a mock toast. "At least we have each other."_

"_To us," he agrees, clinking his bottle off of my cup and chugging._

_The shrieking of girls behind me startles me and I squeak, spinning around to witness the pantsing and subsequent streaking of a very drunk Reggie Mantle. In my surprise, my drink goes flying, splashing all over Jughead's black shirt. Reggie runs outside onto the patio, gyrating his hips in my direction before darting around the front of the house with a loud cheer._

"_I…. could use a walk," I decide. "I'm so sorry about your shirt."_

"_Yeah, so could I," Jughead agrees, waving around his bottle. "And it's fine. I probably spilled on myself already, so… whatever."_

"Since you'd had half a bottle of whiskey, I figured air would do you good, and I was definitely in favour of avoiding Reggie's dick," I continue, reaching for my water.

"I love that you're downplaying the part where you sloshed your booze around and spilled half of it on my shirt," Jughead deadpans.

"What? I wasn't drunk. I didn't have a single drop of booze that night!"

Jughead chuckles. "You were stumbling around, unsteady on your feet, clutching a red Solo cup. I call bullshit, Cooper."

"The cup was straight Coke, and that was the first time I'd ever worn heels." At his disbelieving stare, I cross my arms over my chest. "I'm serious! I let everyone believe I was drinking because I didn't want people to think I was a loser. I couldn't risk getting drunk and saying the wrong thing to the wrong person."

_Like maybe telling you that I had a crush on you?_

"Well, _I wasn't drunk_!" Jughead exclaims.

"Jughead Jones, I saw you with a whiskey bottle!"

"Filled with iced tea," he explains. "Betty, we were leaving town because my dad was a violent alcoholic. You weren't the only one afraid of being the sober loser at a party." He bursts out in bitter laughter, tapping the steering wheel. "You were sober. This changes _everything_."

"I don't understand."

"Of course you don't. Because you only know half of the story, and I know all of it now…"

* * *

**Jughead**

We should have had this conversation months ago. No, _years ago_.

I'm still stinging a bit from the realization that Betty pretended not to know me at the Times that first day, but after hearing her side of the party, I think I understand why she would want to forget I ever existed. I can only hope after hearing _my side_, she understands why I felt the need to run.

"Let me back up a bit," I begin. "You need to understand why I was there in the first place…"

_I'm leaving town in a week, maybe forever._

_Is it stupid to tell someone you're in love with them when a relationship is hopeless? Or is it stupid to never tell them, and always wonder what might have been? It's what I'm debating at the bottom of the driveway to Thornhill, as the looming mansion thrums with the sounds of a house party. Cheryl Blossom has decided to show off her Queen Bee status, prove that she doesn't need her twin brother to be popular. Jason is at a hockey tournament with his parents out of state. The house is hers, and she has seen fit to open the doors to the entire class._

_Archie has promised me Betty will be here, even though Cheryl hates her. A party seems… safe. It's the perfect cliché, right? That magic movie place to reveal your feelings, maybe under the stars out back. _

_I can do this._

"I'm sorry, I couldn't have heard you right… You came to the party to tell me—"

"That I loved you," I finish. "Well, I thought so. I was a kid. I thought what I felt then was intense, but now… I'm surprised Veronica hasn't told you this already. I told her in Virginia."

"She hasn't said a thing to me, Juggie."

I merge into another lane, avoiding a stalled car, and steal a glance at my apparently bewildered girlfriend.

"It's why it stung so much when you and Archie kinda drifted off into the popular crowd in junior high," I continue quietly. "But I was always watching your back, making sure you were okay. Like when Cheryl would harass you on the track. Anyway… that was the plan."

"Did Archie know?" she asks softly.

"I didn't tell him, but he might have suspected something. He never came out and said it." Running my hand through my hair, I draw a deep breath to steady myself. "So, the party…"

_I pull the whiskey bottle from the bag, the one I've filled with iced tea. I figure if I come packing with this clever stage diversion, I can avoid peer pressure. Living with an alcoholic makes getting drunk seem stupid. I'm not interested, but I'll play the part to escape notice. Gotta blend in._

_As I make my way down the foyer, I hear an argument breaking out in the back of the house and follow the sound. To my horror, it's Cheryl, chewing out an anxious Betty. Archie is stepping up, but it's enough. Betty's over her head._

_Time to swoop in._

"_Cheryl, is it the bitching hour, already? Where are your manners?"_

"_Oh great, the town hobo has arrived," she snaps._

"_With pride." I bow with a flourish. "I'm so excited to forget you when I leave Riverdale. Conversation's over."_

_Threading my arm through Betty's, I lead her through the crowd and out the rear doors spilling onto the sprawling rear patio. No longer distracted by Cheryl's tantrum, I'm mesmerized by the sight of my life-long friend. The large, looping curls framing her face, the strapless purple gown hugging her curves, the way the moonlight lends an ethereal glow to her cheeks. God, I don't deserve her. She's too good for a loser like me._

"_You're late," she jokes._

"_I'm here, Cooper. It's a modern miracle."_

"_Archie was pretty demanding."_

_Thank you, Archie. I owe you one._

"_And yet, there he goes, off with the football team," I tell her, pointing through the window._

_Betty shrugs, raising her glass as if to toast him. "At least we have each other."_

"_To us," I proclaim, clinking the whiskey bottle off of her flimsy cup and chugging._

_A sudden burst of noise and the slamming of the rear patio door startles Betty, who stumbles into me and promptly drops half her drink down the front of my shirt. Thankfully, it's black, so it won't matter much, aside from being damp. I grab her arm to steady her as Reggie Mantle rushes by, humping the air beside her before running away, pursued by several cheerleaders clutching his jeans._

_Classy._

_Betty apologizes for my shirt and suggests a walk to clear her tipsy head. I'm practically ready to do a backflip of gratitude. Avoid our classmates? Privacy to maybe find the guts to tell her how I feel? It's perfect._

"I wasn't drunk!"

"But I thought you were!" I remind her. "And that's important to remember from my perspective. Just like I'm going to bet you thinking I was drunk has affected your memory of that party all these years, right?"

"Maybe…"

"Pipe down, peanut gallery. Now we're getting to the important part."

_The Blossom grounds are enormous, perfect for finding a quiet spot to think—or getting trapped too far from the house in a flash thunderstorm. Which is exactly what happens to us, ten minutes into our walk._

_Betty shrieks as the cold rain cascades down upon her, rivulets of water pouring down the cleavage of her strapless dress. "We need to get inside!"_

"_Which way is the house? I'm completely turned around!"_

"_I have no idea where we are!"_

_Glancing around wildly, I spy a large building off to our left. "There! We'll hide in there until it dies down. Come on!"_

_I take her hand and we run, Betty slipping and cursing in the mucky terrain as we cut through a trail and tug open the doors of what we discover to be a large barn. Enormous vats of maple syrup surround us, lining the walls, although the centre of the space offers a small seating area—perhaps some sort of maple tasting? Is that a thing rich people do? I have no idea, but it's my best guess when I see it._

"Seriously, what was with that little set up?" Betty interrupts.

"Knowing what we know now, I assume it's where Clifford Blossom does all his drug dealing."

"Or maybe rich people really do hold maple syrup tastings?"

A brief moment of silence passes, then we both burst out laughing.

"Drugs," Betty gasps.

"Zero doubt."

_The table in the seating area bears a small Coleman lamp, which I turn on, casting a pale glow throughout the room._

_Betty gently squeezes water from her hair, cursing beneath her breath. "I'm a drowned rat!"_

"_First of all, if you were drowned, you wouldn't be talking," I quip. "Second of all, you're far too beautiful to be a rat. I mean, have you ever seen a rat in a stunning shade of purple? Of course not. A nearly-drowned unicorn. I'll let you have that. Final offer."_

_Betty giggles, slumping onto the small sofa. "Fine, I am a unicorn survivor of a hurricane. What does that make you?"_

_Gesturing to my black dress shirt and matching slacks, I roll my eyes. "The dark horse, clearly."_

"_How fitting. Two horses, stuck in a stable."_

_Flopping on the couch beside her, I tug at my damp shirt. "I belong here more than some popularity contest of a party, anyway."_

"_Well, we could have our own party," Betty suggests._

"_What, here?"_

"_Why not?" She leaps to her feet, studying the interior of the barn. "We have ambiance. We have maple syrup if we get desperate for food, I guess. Oh look, a radio!"_

_She crosses the barn towards the door we entered through, turning on a basic portable radio. She fiddles with the dial, tuning it to local top 40 hits station. Not exactly my favourite type of music—I'm more of a classic rock kind of guy—but it's better than awkward silence and the rumbling thunder outside._

"_There we go! Music, lighting, drinks, good company. We have a party," she insists._

_Or a perfect opportunity to tell her how I feel. But how can I, when she's so drunk, she keeps tripping over her own two feet? Would she even remember what I said? What if she laughs in my face? I mean, this is Betty Cooper. I'm just the weirdo loser she used to hang out with because I was friends with Archie. I don't really fit into her world, and soon I won't even be part of it._

"_Ooh, I love this song!"_

_Betty twirls in her dress, the flared skirt swirling around her hips. No, I can't tell her. I can't do it. I'm leaving, there's no point. Either I break her heart or break my own. So instead, I choke on my words and get up and dance. What else can I do?_

"No…"

"What would we have done in a week, Betts? Honestly?"

"Spent it together," she replies quietly. "I wouldn't have spent years thinking you regretted… what happened next…"

"But I did regret it," I admit to her. "Just not for the reason you think…"

_There is laughter, awkward dancing, joking and singing songs terribly at the top of our lungs. The storm rages on, but we don't seem to care. At some point, we kick off our shoes. Later on, I shrug off my shirt, hanging it over a chair to dry. We're close friends, and Betty doesn't react, so I think nothing of it._

_The storm lets up, the thunder's roar a petulant grumble. Neither of us makes a suggestion of returning to the main house. Our party is where we want to be._

_We're stretched out on the hay, talking about movies and books, when suddenly, the conversation shifts. Betty is lying beside me, her hand over mine, as we stare at the roof overhead. I've been resisting the urge to thread my fingers through hers, hold her hand properly. Such a simple thing, but I deny myself._

"_Is there something wrong with me, Juggie?"_

"_What?"_

"_Is there something wrong with me? Like… as a girl?"_

_My head turns to face her, my brow furrowed. "Betty Cooper, are you high?"_

"_I mean it. You're a guy and you're my friend, so you have to tell me. Am I ugly? Or weird? Or, I don't know, something guys don't like?"_

_I am in HELL._

"_Listen to me, alright? You are none of those things. You're incredible. The problem isn't you. Our entire class is filled with cavemen and human cans of garbage."_

"_So I'm not even good enough for cavemen?" she groans._

"_Ugh, you're being impossible. No, they don't even dare to try, because you are not in their league." My hand shifts, covering hers now, claiming it. "You're not even in their solar system, Betty."_

"_No one even asks me to dance," she whispers sadly. "Not once in my whole life."_

_A slow song comes on the radio and I see this as fate stepping in. Rising to my feet, I extend my hand down to her._

"_I'm asking you. Right now. Dance with me?"_

_Betty rolls her eyes, smacking my hand away. "You're just pitying me!"_

"_Nobody's ever asked me either," I tell her. "I've never asked anyone else in my life. I'm asking you because there's no one else who should be the first. Please?"_

"Do you remember the song?"

"The Only Exception. Paramore." Betty laughs softly beside me and I nudge her shoulder. "What?"

"I just didn't expect you to remember it."

"I remember everything about us, Betts." I hesitate, then blurt out, "I bought the CD the next day. Please don't tell anyone. It'll destroy my music cred."

_Betty hesitates, but offers me her hand. I tug her to her feet, pulling her body close to mine. Her bare arms are still cold from the rain, and I run my hands along them, willing them to warm. As we begin to sway, I pray not to humiliate myself with the worst timed erection ever._

"_See? You're a natural."_

"_How would you know?" _

"_I've seen enough CW shows to determine that this is the ideal sway rhythm." Her arms wrap around my neck and I find myself scant inches away from the pale pink lips I constantly think of kissing. "Thank you for taking my dance virginity."_

_Betty blushes, burying her face against my bare shoulder. "Oh my God!"_

_Oh my God, indeed. The feel of her breath on my skin is heavenly. What the hell was I thinking, taking my damn shirt off? _

_And then, Betty kisses my shoulder, ever so gently, and my groin decides THAT is what I was thinking._

"_Betts," I whisper._

_The song is ending, and there's a crackling energy in the room. Now or never. She looks up at me shyly, her mouth so close to mine that we're breathing each other's air, and that's it. White flag. I surrender. I lean in, my lips meeting hers with a moan of sweet relief and she presses closer, her hands tugging eagerly on my neck, reeling me in. _

_I lose myself in her, the intensity swelling as hands roam and tongues tease. My fingers tangle in her damp hair, tilting her head as I break away from her lips, moving to kiss and lick her neck and collarbone. She moans in my ear, her fingernails raking down my bare back._

"_More," she pants._

_I have ideas for more, but I hesitate, remembering her drunken stagger. And in that moment, the door of the barn swings open, smacking against the wall with a loud bang._

"_Shit!" Betty curses._

"_Oh my God!" a male voice cries out._

_Standing at the door, caught in a very intimate embrace, are Kevin Keller and Moose Mason. And while Kevin's sexuality is probably the worst-kept secret in our school, Moose is… a surprise. Not that I care—I'm very much a live and let live guy. _

"Moose is still in the closet," Betty informs me casually. "And I still hate them for interrupting us. I also have an irrational hatred of barns because of this incident."

"You know what's weird? I kinda love barns because of this incident. Bittersweet ending aside…"

"_Fuck!" Moose edges backwards, frantically looking at Kevin, then us. "Fuck!"_

"_Hey, Moose… secret's safe with us, alright?" I call out. _

"_Of course!" Betty agrees. "In fact, we um, we were just going."_

"_Yeah, let me grab my shirt."_

"_You should do that, it's chilly," Betty rambles, slipping on her shoes._

_By the time I'm dressed, Kevin and Moose have dispersed to parts unknown, and the moment is lost. I leave it in the ether, cursing myself for letting things go so far. Betty's been drinking and I haven't been. I've taken advantage of her because of my messy feelings, and I feel sick to my stomach. _

"_Should we get back?" she asks tentatively._

"_Yeah, we should make sure Archie isn't face down in a keg or something," I agree quickly. "Let's go."_

"I walked you back to the party, where you immediately ran off to the bathroom—"

"And then you left! Without saying goodbye!" Betty snaps.

"You ran away the moment we saw the house! I was freaking out, Betts!"

"Like I wasn't? I'd just kissed you after years of crushing on you and—"

"I can't drive and do this." We're a quarter mile from an exit, a quick off-and-on gas station deal, and I signal to cut across two lanes to take it. Betty grips the handle on her door, muttering my name and several choice curses, but I manage to maneuver the van onto the ramp and around the back of the gas station. Throwing the vehicle in park, I kill the engine and lean back in my seat.

"It was either do this, or crash the damn thing on the highway. Rewind, please."

"To what?"

"To the reason you were freaking out, because I'm pretty sure I've gone delusional or deaf." I turn in my seat, jamming my legs against the centre console, desperate to face Betty head-on. "I need to hear this again."

"I… Okay, I wouldn't call it _love_ like you were, but I'd definitely _thought_ about you like… that." Her hand flies up, covering her mouth in that adorable way she does when she's embarrassed. "You were always so sweet when Cheryl was picking on me, and I'd watch you under the bleachers. You were hot, alright?"

"This can't be happening. You told me you had a thing for Archie! You literally asked me to help you date him in grade seven!"

"Because everyone told me we would be perfect together!" Betty rolls her eyes dramatically. "He was my friend and he was safe, so of course it seemed like a good idea. But whenever my mind wandered, it was you. So yes, if you'd told me how you felt at the party, I would have taken the week, Juggie. It would have been worth it to me. Instead, you _ditched me_."

I tug angrily on my hair, a million lost possibilities screaming in my skull. "You ran _off!_ For all I knew, you were crying in the bathroom because you regretted everything, or were looking for Archie to kick my ass. I panicked!"

"You ditched me! I went upstairs for five minutes to calm down and try to think that maybe you weren't drunk, but into me too, and you _ditched _me. You rejected me, and you avoided me for five days until you showed up on my porch and said goodbye, with Archie, your mom and your sister watching. I couldn't ask you anything. I couldn't tell you how hurt I was. No, you got to _break my heart a second time_ and leave again."

A tear slides down her cheek and my heart shatters. _Fuck_. No wonder she wanted to pretend she'd never met me.

"I left because I was disgusted with myself for taking advantage of you while drunk." My voice is shaky, scarcely audible, but I pray she's listening. "I avoided you because I was terrified you woke up the next morning and hated me, but I couldn't leave town without seeing you one more time. If I'd known what you were thinking… I would have stayed. I would have called."

I slump in my seat, eyes shut, defeated. In my mortified, self-hating stupidity, in those days of fear, I never once considered that Betty could possibly be at home, feeling heartbroken and angry for a whole other reason. Never could I have dreamed of a life where she would want me back. Hell, as an adult, I'd found myself struggling to believe it, and she'd nearly died without knowing how I felt!

_I'm a mess. An insecure, hopeless mess. A weirdo. A loser._

"I would have stayed all night if I knew," I repeat softly. "Please believe that."

"I believe you," she whispers.

Her hand caresses my cheek and I open my eyes. Her loving gaze steals my breath away.

"I was so hurt that when I saw you at the Times, I acted like I didn't remember you, even though I knew you. My entire body knew you. My instinct was to throw my arms around you and yell at you, all at once."

"It was a dream and a nightmare," I agree. "I had no idea what you were thinking."

"The boyfriend thing was smart for the story, but I wonder if part of me wanted you to want me, change your mind all these years later."

"You've spent your life thinking I didn't want you, when all this time, I've been comparing every woman I've dated to you. They never measured up, by the way." I shift across the seat, as close as I can get to her. "C'mere."

Betty shimmies closer, eyeing the console and hiking herself over it to sit sideways on my lap. Her legs stretch across her seat, knees bent slightly to fit. She kisses me hard, her hands cupping my face, and relief washes over me. We're going to be okay.

"So you didn't avoid me because you regretted a drunk makeout and wanted to let me down easy," she murmurs.

"And you were completely sober and willing to makeout that night, so I can stop feeling like a skeezy jerk."

Resting her head on my shoulder, Betty sighs. "This will be one hell of a story for the grandchildren."

"We are never telling our hypothetical grandchildren this story."

"It's romantic!"

"Like hell it is!" I protest, laughing heartily. "Underage drinking—no, fake drinking, heartbreak, years of regret? We can tell them the abridged version of our takedown of Hiram. The edited for cable version."

"It ended happily. It's romantic," she insists, kissing my cheek. "I'm cold and it's getting late. You good to drive?"

I hug her close, kissing her forehead. "We're okay?"

"It was nine years ago, and you're right: now I know the whole story, I'm just sad for us. We could have had a really fun last week together." Sensing my skepticism, she smiles. "We're okay, Jughead."

"Then I'm good to drive."

Betty slides back into her seat, fastening her seat belt and shivering. "Start the van, I'm cold!"

I turn over the engine, allowing it to warm as I check my phone. Noticing an email waiting from Jessica, I thumb it open and scroll through the contents.

"Hey Betts?"

"Hmm?"

"Looks like we have a new story. Meeting with Jess Monday at ten."

Betty's eyes widen as she reaches for her phone. "Any details?"

"Nothing specific, but it's ours to run. Think we'll get to go undercover again?"

Betty huffs, reading the same vague email on her cell. "As the intern to your baby reporter, I nominate you for the undercover gig. I'll be the one doing research at the office, sending you sexts to keep you motivated."

Pulling out of the gas station lot, I reach over and squeeze her thigh. "Just remember: the emergency safe word is flamingo."

"For the last time, we are not using flamingo!" Betty protests between giggles.

"Why not? It's perfect. No one would ever say it during sex, or sexts. I hope not, anyway."

"No flamingos!" Betty insists, turning the music back on.

"Well yeah," I deadpan. "That's the point. I have no interest in flamingo play of any kind."

I can feel her exasperated stare from the other side of the van, just as I know it's all a show. Any moment now… Yep, she's laughing, and so am I.

"Their spindly legs would be so annoying!" Betty mocks.

My hand drops to my groin. "Um, those beaks are not getting anywhere near my body!"

"I have a strict ban on pink in the bedroom, you know that!"

"Feathers are so messy. Plus I think I might be allergic to birds?"

Her giggles turn to wheezing laughs as she slaps the van door. "Stop it! My ribs hurt."

"So you agree that flamingo is our safe word?"

"Jughead Jones, so help me, I will use your legal name…"

I let it drop, knowing I've won anyway. We pass a sign that announces New York is only 40 miles away and I am relieved.

"I'll make you deal, right here in this Uhaul. A deal I have never made anyone else in this planet."

"I'm listening."

"I will grant you one full day where you can use my legal name without me grumbling, complaining or screaming, if you agree to two conditions."

"Okay… Name your conditions."

"One, you never threaten to use it again out of spite or torment, from this day forward." I glance her way and she sticks out her tongue. "Teasing is classed as torment."

"Condition two?"

"On the day you are granted this privilege… you have to marry me."

"Juggie… what?"

"I'm not proposing. Yet," I add quickly. "I'm just saying, I don't expect you to say your vows to someone named Jughead, although you're welcome to. I definitely won't mind. That's your one day to go wild with Forsythe Pendleton Jones the Thirds. Until then, not a peep."

After an impossibly long silence, long enough that I begin to worry I've pushed far beyond the border of what any reasonable man should bring up in the first four months of a relationship, Betty speaks.

"Same deal for Elizabeth. I don't mind it on the byline, but out loud, it makes me cringe."

"No other comments on that deal?" I ask nervously.

In my periphery, I notice her shuffling closer. She leans in, resting her head against my arm with a soft sigh.

"It's always been you, Juggie. I just didn't know it."

I think of what my dad told me as we packed up for New York in September. He had a lot to say about loyalty, but also connection. How some people are our family, our blood, but some people are _in our blood_. They make us stronger. Make us who we are.

From the moment she walked up to Archie and me, introducing herself with her bright smile, Betty has been in my blood. Without her in my life, I was forever searching for a piece of myself. The moment she walked into that office at the Times, everything missing clicked back into place.

"It's always been you, Betts. And it always will be."

* * *

**And they lived HEA... sleuthing, writing stories, and hopefully never needing that emergency code word of flamingo.**

**In my Riverdale, Fred lives a long life as mayor, just as I planned it.**

**It's been a hell of a ride. Thank you so much for coming along in the car.**


End file.
